The Computer Criminal
by themodernteen
Summary: Sherlock faces his most challenging case yet as he, an injured Lestrade, a scared Donovan, a suspicious Anderson, and a worried Watson are trapped with a serial killer inside Scotland Yard. When Sherlock is poisoned, he must race against the clock to solve the case of the murderer before time runs out for them all. Can the detective solve this puzzling case or will he die trying?
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: I don't own anything from BBC America or Sherlock, but here's a new story for you guys! Hope you like it and PLEASE review and tell me what you** **think!**

It was a new case. Thank God. Sherlock finally didn't have to wait around at home listening to John's silly complaints about how they were out of milk or where the clicker was. So boring. Lestrade had sent him a quick text, "Serial killer. Kidnaps only redheads, all bodies found scalped. Need help, come quickly."

"I'm going to the Yard," Sherlock shouted to John who was in the shower, "Don't know when I'll be back."

"What?" he heard John's muffled cry.

Sherlock was already out the door.

"Ah, you're here," Lestrade called when he saw the tall consulting detective walk through his office.

"Another murder," Sally Donovan narrowed her eyes and her voice was filled with bitter sarcasm, "you must be excited."

"It's not the murders that excite me, Sergeant Donovan, but the murderer," he retorted to her as he stepped into Detective Inspector Lestrade's office. Her eyes trailed him as he approached the desk.

"Killings, all of them. They're brutal so you might want to take a minute to prepare yourself before looking at the photos-"

Sherlock snatched the pictures out of the hand and stared at them intently. He looked past the brutality and violence of the image to uncover the true meaning and messages underneath.

"Interesting," he muttered under his breath.

"What is?"

"Shhh."

The pale lifeless eyes of the victim stared at Sherlock through the photo, but he looked at her body language, her clothes, her injuries, what weapons could have inflicted them. In a quick twenty-second sweep, Sherlock already had analyzed and deciphered most of the mystery. The killer had actually snapped the photo, only three fingers of his hand shown on the bottom right corner.

"Hmmm," Sherlock set the photographs down on the desk and typed something up on his phone, Lestrade's waiting eyes glued to his every movement.

"Well?"  
"The killer is dying."

"Well, aren't they all."

"No, I mean he's sick."

"How do you know?"

"Just look, the wounds inflicted upon the victim were by a long solid object, either a club or a stick. But don't you see how the varying colors of the bruising alongside the wound show that his hands were shaking?"

"How does that prove he's dying?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "The hand," he pointed towards the snap of the murderer's fingers, "clubbing of the fingers suggests heart failure."

"Heart failure?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "Do you know nothing?"

"Ha-ha, but is there anything else?"

"Always. You're looking for a male between 45-53, dark brown hair, tall, and recently divorced."

"How do you manage to get all that from one teensy photograph?" the detective inspector blubbered.

"It's because he's a psychopath," Anderson appeared leaning on the doorway.

"Ah," Sherlock smiled tightly, "Anderson, don't you have someone else to incessantly annoy?"

"Isn't it amazing," Anderson gestured to Lestrade, "how this man can figure out all the clues of a murder because of three fingers?"

"It's because the capacity of your small brain cannot contain the knowledge it yearns to seek," Sherlock turned to the sergeant who rolled his eyes, "as I was saying-"

Sherlock smiled as shut the door on Anderson, "The hair on his fingers, dark brown slightly greying, between ages 45-53, tall because his hands are large, suggesting at a _larger_ man, recently divorced because of the glimpse of the ring on his third finger. Dirty, old, damaged, but not thrown away. If he left her then he would have gotten rid of it, but no she left him, he kept it out of sentiment."

Lestrade was writing down furiously in his notepad.

"Update me when the next victim is in the morgue," he called to Lestrade as he walked out and proceeded to text Molly the same, he smiled to Sergeant Donovan and Anderson on the way out.

 _Bzzzzzz. Bzzzzzzzz._

"Sherlock!" Lestrade pounded on the splintering green wooden door, "Open up! It's Lestrade!" Sergeants Donovan and Anderson behind him.

No answer.

Usually both doors were open and either John was fussing about the kitchen or Sherlock was running around with a new experiment. God knows about his experiments. It was 9 that night and the sky was already black, the winter wind chilling to the bone.

"Maybe he got attacked?" Anderson raised his eyebrows.

"No," Lestrade tried to wrestle with the knob, "Sherlock would probably scare em off with a wild deduction before they could do anything."

"Here," Sally reached up above the doorframe and pulled out a rusty old gold key.

Both detectives looked at her.

"What?" she defended herself, "I only found out about this when I came here to install the cameras in their flat."

She wiggled the key into the slot and it clicked open.

"Sherlock!" Lestrade called, "Sherl-"

He stopped short at the sight in front of him. The flat was clean, it was neat. The papers that were usually scattered across the desk was put into little piles, the kitchen countertop cleaned and wiped, the refrigerator actually held food along with body parts, Sherlock's coat was hanging on the chair nicely folded, John's laptop was plugged in to charge and telly was turned off. But what surprised Detective Inspector Lestrade the most was the sight of Sherlock Holmes, the world's biggest arse, lying down on the couch, his eyes shut. He was wearing a dark blue t-shirt and grey sweat pants with black socks, his night robe on the chair. He had a wool blanket around his body, one long arm draped across it. His legs were resting on the opposite end of the couch and his dark curly hair was in a disarray. Sure, Lestrade had seen Sherlock drugged by Irene Adler, unconscious in the hospital after getting shot by Mary Watson, but sleeping? He didn't think Sherlock ever slept. It seemed unusual and wrong. His demeanor was not cold, hard, and bitterly sarcastic, but it wasn't the peaceful, angelic look that kids had either. He seemed calm, relaxed even. His pale face was illuminated even more under the moon's glow and he was breathing deep and even.

"Oh my-"

"Out," Lestrade cut Anderson off and ordered the two to leave.

"What? Why?" Donovan looked at her boss, "we just got here-"

"Out, I said, now."

He ushered them to the door and closed it tightly, locking it from the inside. He knew Sherlock, and he knew that his friend wouldn't want the two detectives that constantly annoyed him to see him like this. The Detective Inspector looked back once more at the sleeping man and proceeded to look around the flat. A note by John was left on his laptop.

 _Gone to the clinic, flu outbreak. Be home soon._

Lestrade knew Sherlock would come home and show off too John about the new findings he'd manage to deduce, unconsciously feeding John's booming blog. He opened the greymacbook laptop resting on the desk and typed in John Watson into the search bar. The blog appeared and Lestrade moved the cursor and pressed the link. Nothing had been published yet. There was a small number one icon next to a title that said "drafts". He clicked that and saw the beginnings of a blog write-up appear.

He skimmed his eyes over it. Bingo. Pulling out his camera phone, Lestrade took a quick shot of the screen.

"Do you have a warrant?"

Lestrade stiffened when he heard a voice to the side of him. It wasn't deep like Sherlock's, sure enough John was standing in the doorway. He had on a brown corduroy jacket with dark pants and his grey hair was slightly ruffled from the wind, his briefcase seemed like a weight in his hand but he wore an amused smile on his face.

"Hello, John," the detective inspector had a sheepish grin.

"Greg," John raised his eyebrows in slight question as he set his bag down.

"I'm sorry for intruding-"

"That was Sergeant Donovan, not you."

"How do you know that?"

John pulled out a small tablet that had a black and white grainy picture of both Anderson and Donovan on two separate camera screens, "You think your sergeants are the only ones who have cameras?"

Greg smiled and laughed, clever John Watson, always looking after his friend.

John turned around and saw his friend lying down on the couch, he looked for a second then turned away like it was the most casual thing in the world.

"I just had to collect some of the evidence," Lestrade gestured to his camera phone.

"I won't tell Sherlock," John turned and smiled at the man while sitting down at the desk.

"Thanks," Lestrade began to walk to the door and stopped, "how do you do it?"  
"What?"

The detective inspector nodded at the famous Sherlock Holmes sleeping on the couch.

"How do I live with him?" John's face became thoughtful, "Sherlock is an amazing man. He has, as you have known, an extremely keen intellect but that came with repercussions as a child if you can imagine. He was forced to grow up and be better than anyone else and a brother like Mycroft couldn't have helped either," John scoffed, "he's easy. Leave a little food and water, remind him to go to bed now and again and it's manageable."

Lestrade smiled and shrugged his shoulders, "Goodnight John," he dipped his head and looked to Sherlock, "night, Sherlock."

The door closed to flat 221B.

John walked stiffly out of his bedroom still clad in his pajamas, hair sticking up, and eyes bleary from sleep. The apartment already smelled of fire.

"Sherlock?" John rushed into the living area, "Sherlock!"

"What is it, John, stop shouting," Sherlock was staring at his laptop. The apartment was already a mess and it wasn't even half past eight. The once neat apartment from last night was back to its usual hurricane of papers and odd Sherlocky experiments. Sherlock was fully dressed in a mint green button down with a black suit, his leather shoes were spotless and his hair was a neat curly pile on top of his head. A complete contrast to last night's Sherlock.

"Bloody hell," John fanned the air with a magazine, "what's that smell?"

"Overboil."

"What?"

"The tea, it's been on the stove for too long."

"Why didn't you get up and get it?" John asked while running over and turning off the fire.

"Because I didn't feel like getting up and I knew this exact scenario would play out, do grab me a cup on your way back," Sherlock didn't look up from the screen.

"What're you working on?" John placed a steaming cup in front of his flatmate.

"Oh, John, can't you guess?" Sherlock glared at him.

"A case?"

"Very good, your brain does work."

"What case?"

"Killings. Serial killings."

"You always like those ones, what did you say to me once? It was from A Study in Pink case-"

"Have to wait for the mistake."

"Yeah, right, so what is the mistake?"

Sherlock was silent and steepled his fingers under his chin.

"You don't know?"

Sherlock didn't answer.

"Oh my God, you don't know," John smiled.

Sherlock stared at him with his piercing blue eyes and shoved his phone into his friend's face. A gruesome picture of a young woman lying dead on the floor met his eyes and John turned away.

"What do you see?" Sherlock asked the doctor.

"Sherlock I just woke up!" John turned away, he couldn't get the image out of his mind.

"John, what do you see?"

John forced himself to stare at the photo to appease his friend,"Gruesome wounds, blunt force. Stick or a club-"

"The girl, what about the girl."

"Young, skinny, tall, blue eyes, brown hair-"

"Exactly!" Sherlock slammed the laptop screen down.

"Alright, calm down," John raised his eyebrows, "what's wrong with brown hair."

"All the victims, John, have had red hair. Each of them were red-haired women, and now the killer murders a brunette. What to make of it!" Sherlock hissed.

"Maybe he changed his mind-"

"People don't just change their mind, especially serial killers!"

"What if this is the mistake?"

"No, its too obvious, you don't make a mistake like this-it's so significant. He's trying to make a statement," Sherlock began to pace the room, "brown hair, brown hair, brown hair. Tint of red? No, possibly dyed? No…"

John realized Sherlock wasn't talking to him anymore but was entering his Mind Palace. He slowly stepped away in the kitchen and let the brilliant mind do its job.

John knew that this case was going to be a taxing one. Sherlock rarely ever was outdone, if anyone were to question his motives he would deliver you an intricate rant that was more brutal than a beating. John read the paper, fixed himself another cup, and dusted up the kitchen a bit with no sound from his friend in the other room. Sherlock could stay like that forever, in his Mind Palace. His record was three days just sitting on his chair, fingers tapping against the plushy arm. John had to force him to eat by threatening that he'd take away his secret smoke stash.

The flat was quiet, peaceful for 95 minutes until Sherlock finally awoke.

"Aha!" He cried and came storming into the kitchen.

"What?" John asked,"what is it?"

Sherlock pulled out the head in a plastic bag from the fridge. John scrunched up his nose and looked away.

"Sherlock, can I ask why the head has to be out while I'm eating?"

"Man up, John, lives are on the line. Now, Mr. Hogard doesn't mind,"Sherlock looked into the head's dead eyes,"I have been performing an experiment having to do with human hair, John. How certain hair dyes affect the decomposition of the body. I got the report from Lestrade that there was traces of hydrogen peroxide and intermediate chemicals which can create a basic hair dye or coloring. This proves why the victim's hair was not red but brown."

"Are you sure it's hair dye?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and walked over to the counter where he picked out two chemicals and dipped a brush in each. He dabbed the liquid from one brush onto the matted hair of the head on the right side and did the same with the other.

"Observe."

He proceeded to start wiping away the dye with a wet cloth and surely two odd patches of hair were blond and a russet brown.

"You think the killer dyed the victim's hair?"

"A possibility."

"Why would one go through all that lengths?"

"Maybe they knew I was investigating, maybe they wanted to throw me off?"

"But with hair dye? Hell, if I was being investigated by you I'd stop murdering altogether. If the killer knew you were investigating, then he must've known that you would connect the hydrogen peroxide with hair."

"Yes, John, but if you were a psychotic murderer with a heart failure condition and you beat women to death, do you think you would be capable of reasonable thought at the moment?"

"Well, I suppose not, but if he is being able to manage to stoop you then he must know what he is doing. Maybe he is connected with previous murders? Maybe he is experienced?"  
"Already looked, nothing that coincides with these patterns, and before you ask, yes they must coincide with the patterns. Killers think they are unique and try to make a murder with their own taste and style. Some prefer guns, knives, or in this case, big sticks. Now, if you found a red headed woman walking down the street and you were a strange, middle-aged man, how would you get her to follow you?"

"Hypothetically speaking, if I was a murderer on the prowl I would try to hit a sensitive spot in women. Children or family."

"Brilliant," Sherlock started to pace the floor, "you approach her, a flushed look on your face, and tell her your child is missing. Go on."

"Well, then I would ask this woman to accompany me to where I last saw my child."

"Mmmm, no, too risky. Something urgent, something tempting! Aha! "Look I see my child over there! Help me stop them!"

"Yes," John was on his feet now too, "take them down the wrong corner, boom, in the car and drive off."

"The murderer doesn't seem to stray far past Luxembourg and Brighton, now he hunts somewhere not too crowded. Avoid malls and tube stops. Someplace where he can blend. Many alleyways or corners."

"Jenningstons Square," John piped up, "half the street is corporate fancy offices and the rest is slums with homeless and thugs. Good place for a child missing deception and many alleyways for the junkies to hide, but still a woman in a suit can be seen leaving the office."

"Perfect," Sherlock smiled, his piercing blue eyes alive, "let's go catch a killer."

John and Sherlock ran back into the flat, panting and sweaty, well at least John was. Sherlock rarely seemed winded.

"Well?" John asked his friend.

"What?" Sherlock looked at him incredulously, "are you saying all that ruckus and you didn't take away one little detail? Oh my, I can't imagine how your silly little minds cope."

"Alright, enough," John cracked his back, "what do you got?"

Sherlock started to stomp up the stairs to the flat, his coat trailing and voice echoing.

"I went to the receptionist desk to the five corporate offices on the street. Only one of them reported a young woman missing, but it was rumored that the boss let her go. You know these receptionists, chatty little things. I couldn't get her to stop. She said that she believed that the missing girl had something bad happen to her. Nancy does Tarot, you see? Nancy is the finance clerk, fine woman. She saw in the cards that the missing girl was going to die soon, but she was too scared to say anything. So Jaclyn-"

Sherlock stopped mid-sentence.

"Sherlock?" John narrowed his eyes, "go on, something about Jaclyn-"

"Shh," his friend hissed. The tall, lanky detective was erect, his eyes wide and alert, lips pursed, hair ruffled, and skin pale.

John reached into his back pocket and pulled out his revolver.

"What is it?"

"I left the kitchen light off," Sherlock dipped his head to the shadow of light peaking out from under the door.

John cocked the gun.

"I'm going to go in first," Sherlock whispered very quietly, "you follow me, cover me, and if I get shot then you will be in a bloody boatload of trouble, do you understand?"

"Quite."

Sherlock reached his hand over and gently gave the green splintering wood door a firm push. It creaked on its hinges and opened sinisterly. Nothing happened. John held his revolver with a familiar grip. No sound, no movements. Both men felt like they were in a thriller movies, suspense building up by the second. Sherlock took a light breath and rushed into the kitchen his coat and John billowing behind him.

To Sherlock it wasn't a surprise to see what was before him. He wasn't expecting a battalion of soldiers who to be pointing their bayonets and shooting up the block. John might've, but what did he expect to do with a revolver? Come on, John, think it through. But there was a particularly gory sight awaiting the detective team. It was another victim. Her body was draped across the counter like a doll, her eyes wide and lifeless, her skin pale and cold, veins created spiderwebs under her skin, her hair was chestnut brown.

"Jesus," John turned away while Sherlock remained unnerved. His hands were stuck in his coat pockets and his blue eyes flitted across the scene.

"Examine the body, John."

"What? No-"

"Examine it, John."

Sherlock's voice was low and threatening. John was rarely ever familiar with this tone, it was mainly used with the enemy, but right now John was. He was done with this case. It had gotten too far. The killer knew where they lived and maybe he would target one of them. But Sherlock was working, yes he was silent but he was sprinting through ideas in his Mind Palace faster than John could form a coherent thought. And now John was in the way.

"Sherlock, there's a dead girl in our kitchen!" He lowered his voice as to not alert the neighbors, "now, this case has gone on long enough. Call Lestrade, tell him sorry but this is a no-can-do-"

"I'm not calling Lestrade, examine the body, John, now," Sherlock's lip curled slightly.

"Fine, I'll call him," John walked over to his bag he set down and rummaged through it looking for his mobile.

"Do not call him," Sherlock hissed, he was quick as lightning and each syllable was stressed. Sherlock never attacked with fists, but with his own words, "If you are not going to be useful in this case, then get out."

This stopped John. He looked up with cold eyes to see Sherlock's jaw set and his mind made. John thought Sherlock always valued their friendship, that he would pick John over a case any day, well at least he had hoped it. But today, he learned the real answer. Sherlock Holmes was a ex-addict, a detective, a lawless, cold, calculating, rude, and disrespectful arse and Sherlock never had friends. John finally understood Donovan's words the first day he met Sherlock.

"Wow," John nodded his head, "alright then, I can see what's more important to you. Good luck on, uh, this," he tried to turn his head away from the dead girl, "get that cleaned up."

John picked up his back, grabbed his leather coat and stepped out of flat 221B.


	2. Chapter 2

Mycroft pulled up next to the curb, across from that horrid deli place that Sherlock so delightedly decided to reside next to. The odor of pastuerized meat wafted through the air and Mycroft shut the door of his Mercedes, his cane placed simply at his side. The door knocker that was usually straightened by John was now hanging crooked. Unusual, Mycroft noticed. He tapped the door open with the head of his cane and silently stepped through the doorway like a shadow. Mrs. Hudson banged pots from behind her door and Mycroft stepped up the stairs to his brother's flat.

He tapped the edge of his cane against the door before turning the knob and walked inside. Mycroft pursed his lips and straightened his suit as a battalion of papers bombarded him and multiple scents reached his nostrils.

"Sherlock?" he called, slightly annoyed.

No answer, just the usual ruffle and rustle of his brother coming from the kitchen.

"Very childish," Mycroft placated, tossing items this way and that with his cane, "I never knew you as one to regress, Sherlock."

He heard an amused snort from the kitchen.

"Funny, eh? I think so too, Mother always did worry about you and your _shenanigans_ ," he tried to stir up some old nerves.

The flipping of papers stopped for a moment and Mycroft prepared a victory smile, but it resumed after a second or two.

"What were they again? I can't recall…Oh yes! Your'e best friend being a dog, you never playing with any of the kids on the street, you being put in the 6th grade classes in 2nd grade, you being bullied, you always outsmarting everyone but, of course, you could never keep up with me."

"What do you want, Mycroft?" Sherlock came bounding into the room, his sleeve pulled up on his arms and hair in disarray.

"My, my," Mycroft pursed his lips. Sherlock was wearing a puffy white button down with fitted black pants and faded blue Oxfords. His hair was a mess, his beard unshaven, and his eyes glassy, "you've look unkept. This case too trying?"

"I'm handling it, now leave."

"But I've only just arrived," Mycroft smiled, "and where's the dear doctor?"

"Out."

"You two had at each other then? It was about time."

"Mycroft, get out!"  
"Make me."

"Don't be so childish, I'm a grown man and so are you."

"I'm glad you've noticed."

Sherlock inhaled slowly as to regain composure, "enough of these games, Mycroft, we aren't boys playing in the country anymore, now what do you need?"

"This case has started to become very difficult on my end."

"You mean the British government is threatened by one man?"

Mycroft's eyes flared. If he loved one thing, it was his job, "We aren't intimidated by anyone or anything. But this has become a most unfortunate situation. Word is getting around that a rogue male has been beating woman. You should see the feminist organizations and liberals lining up at the door," he rolled his eyes, "it's attracting negative attention we don't need after the terrorist bomb under Parliament."

"Which I diverted."

"Then do it again, Sherlock, I haven't got time for your silly experiments and blogs," his voice becomemore terse, "you think yourself a legend, a god walking among mere mortals, pathetic. What sort of detective are you then if you can't even solve a case? If John will help hurry the process then be the bigger man and call him over. He's like a little pup, he'll come running back to his master."

Sherlock stayed silent but his jaw was set and Mycroft was afraid he'd gone too far but it was necessary for England.

"Leave," Sherlock hissed.

"You have seventy two hours," Mycroft sniffed and slammed the door.

For two days, John hadn't seen, heard, or lived with Sherlock, well he didn't have anywhere else to go, so he was staying with Lestrade in his flat. Sure, he'd grown used to living with another male as flatmates and nothing more with Sherlock, but Lestrade was like another human, a boring human. He wasn't hacking a pig with a spear, or putting eyeballs in jam for experimentation, or having philosophical conversations with his ceramic skull, or play the violin at 4 am. Greg would work all day, come home, make a drink, watch some telly, and go to bed. John missed the excitement and bustle of 221 B. Mrs. Hudson was his private eye. She would tell John what was happening with the case or with Sherlock himself. Mrs. Hudson sounded worried, but she always did. She said Sherlock wasn't eating, sleeping, or cleaning. John knew the routine, Sherlock's mind wouldn't rest until this case was over. It would neglect the essential actions it needed to survive.

John wanted updates on the actual case itself and word was that Mycroft payed a visit. Mrs. Hudson claimed "you could hear their voices all the way to Brooks Street." Mycroft was a bad sign. Usually John was there to buffer the two battling brothers, but this time he was absent. He knew Mycroft would add more stress and pressure on Sherlock's zooming mind. His comments about being the smarter one, the better one, their childhood misery (more Sherlock's childhood misery), and his high standing in the British government would only tempt Sherlock to work harder, to deduct faster, deteriorate quicker. He remembered one case with a dead pigeon marking each body and a subway train. It took days for Sherlock to solve it, five days in fact, and in all that time he never slept, he ate a cracker or two a day, and he lived off of tea. His lean form would sag and hunch, his eyes would be wild with ideas, his dark circles like bruises, his hair like static, his clothes crinkled, and his mind restless. After seemingly trying cases, Sherlock usually didn't speak much. His mind musn't be vacant. He would compose music, perform experiment, solve small petty cases to rest but keep sharp at the same time.

This was day four of the current case. It would overpass the previous record of case lengths and take a ringing lead as first. Mrs. Hudson would try to sneak a peak at a few of the papers scattering the flat to inform John of the status, but Sherlock was always there. He hadn't left the flat, the door was shut, and trash piled the floors. Chemical smells stained the air and made it hard to breath. It was an unhealthy environment for Sherlock to think in-to be in. John thought of a lame excuse of an alternative way to get high, but he knew Sherlock's addiction to drugs wasn't at fault, it was his addiction to discovery.

The flat door opening and closing jolted John out of his thoughts and he quickly picked up the paper. Greg walked in, dropping his leather bag on the sofa and hanging his long trench coat.

"It's really coming down out there," Lestrade wiped a hand through his wet hair and wiped his shoes on the door mat.

"Oh yeah?" John pretended to look surprised, "typical London."

"Yeah, tell me about it," Greg reached for the fridge handle and pulled it open.

With Sherlock there wouldn't be timid comments about the weather. Maybe he was so used to the unordinary lifestyle of Sherlock Holmes that he forgot how to interact with regular people.

"Tough day at work?" John noticed the tired circles around Greg's eyes.

"This case is killing the Yard," he admitted, sighing heavily, he sat across the table from John, "every time we have a lead or a definite pattern, the killer goes and does something different."

"Really? What's changed? Last time I was…in on the case, he stopped killing ginger haired women and changed to brunette. There was a-a body in our flat," John recalled the gruesome night.

"Yeah, Sherlock called about that one later that night. The brunette period is just starting to end," Greg lowered his voice and leaned in closer to John, "there was a child murdered on Hamilton Street, left in the dumpster, the poor soul."

"Oh God," John sighed with remorse, "is it associated with the killer and the case?"

"We don't know, it's a little different from his usual pattern. The fact is, the kid was a baby. Almost 6 months. So far he has been targeting younger women, maybe late thirties or early twenties, somewhere there, but now a baby? It's odd."

"How's Sherlock faring?"

Immediately Lestrade's face darkened.

"You can tell me, Greg."

"He's taking it…difficultly."

"What do you mean?"

"Sherlock can be…obsessive when it comes to cases, as you know. His only priority is this one. I try to send an officer over to the flat once a day, get some word from Mrs. Hudson, but he's just shut up in there. I try to get him to rest, to eat, to take his mind off it, but it's Sherlock we're talking about. The bastard would kill himself before letting the case go."

John recalled the night when Sherlock told him to leave when he decided to stop working on the case.

"Mycroft paid a visit to him," John mentioned, "Mrs. Hudson has been keeping me posted as well."

Lestrade sighed, "I know, and Sherlock is only more fired up when his brother is around."

John opened his mouth to say something but the ring of the detective's mobile stopped him.

"Lestrade," he spoke into it.

There was an inaudible voice on the other end.

"Mm-hmm, yeah, okay. Wait-what? Hold on, stay there, no one gets in or out."

Lestrade flew from his seat and towards the door, John followed.

"What? What is it?"

"It's Sherlock, he's left the flat, and he's at the Yard.


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: Thank you all for the reviews! I appreciate the love as Sherlock is an amazing character and since there are such limited episodes it's nice to add some fiction for it! I love to keep posting chapters because your support really encourages me! Enjoy!**

Lestrade walked with a fast pace through Scotland Yard trying to get to his office. His two detectives, Donovan and Anderson, stood at the door waiting for his arrival. They walked, matching his stride, each on one side of him.

"Where is he?"

"Your office," Donovan answered.

"Why is he here?" Anderson ran a little to meet his boss's pace.

"That's the question, isn't it," Lestrade retorted.

"Do you think he's solved the case?" Donovan turned to look at him.

"No," Lestrade walked even faster, "he would've announced it to all of bloody London before coming here. Something is wrong, something isn't adding up, and Sherlock is here to tell us what it is."

Silence from the two detectives. Greg's office was at the very end of the building. His shoes clicked against the marble flooring, echoing off the walls.

"Listen, you two," he began, "I know you aren't particularly keen about Sherlock, but no snide comments today, understood?"

Donovan looked away and Anderson snorted.

Lestrade stopped abruptly, his lackeys halting in their tracks as well. He turned to face them like a father scolding his children.

"I mean it," his voice was low, eyes serious, "Sherlock is under enough pressure as it is," he didn't mention Mycroft coming over or John leaving, "I don't want a peep out of any of you. You help him. Now, I know how that awful that might sound to you but if he asks for something you're there. No excuses, no complaints. Let's go."

Lestrade's office doors were closed, but he knew Sherlock was in there behind the wooden panels. Two guards blocked the entrance and everybody in their cubicles looked at their detective inspector expectantly.

"Back to work," he called. Immediately fifteen people turned back to their monitors or fingers flitted across the keyboards.

Lestrade's men opened the door for him, the three detectives were ushered into the room and the door closed immediately after. Sherlock's body was turned away from them. His hands were on Greg's desk and his head was slightly bowed. He picked it up just a little and instantly growled.

"Get out."

Anderson, Donovan, and Lestrade backed up at his tone, but the message was clear. He only wanted Greg in the room.

Anderson slammed open the door, Donovan followed.

"No excuses, no complaints, remember?" she called, her head poking through the crack of the doorway.

Lestrade locked it from the inside and turned around to see his friend facing him.

"Bloody hell, Sherlock!" Lestrade yelled. Holmes looked terrible. His shirt was wrinkled and worn, his pants dirty and scuffed, his hands were pale and shaking, his back hunched and crooked, his neck veiny and blue, his cheekbones boney and jutting, his hair messy and disorganized, and his eyes purple and sunken, "what's happened to you?"

Sherlock no longer kept the hissing tone he used with Donovan and Anderson, his voice was hoarse and barely a whisper.

"I've made progress with the case."

Lestrade pulled up a chair, "sit, sit."

Sherlock didn't protest, he had to support himself with the desk to ease into the chair, but even then he stumbled. Greg went over and made him a cup of tea and brought a sandwich.

The second he presented the food item in front of Sherlock, his face grew paler and clammy. He looked like he was going to be sick, "Just the cup."

Lestrade hesitantly put the sandwich on the desk.

"What's the big reveal?" Lestrade looked at his overtired friend.

"First," he gulped down the tea, "how's John?"

"How do you know he was with me?"

The regular Sherlock resurfaced, "Oh, please, Graham, you think me incapable of thought just because a case has caught my attention? John knows me, Mrs. Hudson, Mycroft, and you. Now of all those options, which sounds most appealing?"

Lestrade smiled with relief, "he's like an old maid sitting in my flat, not knowing what to do with his hands and feet. He misses you, but I think he's too proud to come back."

"Good, now to the case," despite his tired stance, Sherlock stood up hurriedly and began to pace the floor, his fingers steepled under his chin. Old habits die hard, "Gingers, Brunettes, babies. Beat by blunt force. Baby in the trash can. 5 months 16-day old girl. Connections, connections, connections. Patterns, patterns, patterns. What could it be?" he slammed his fists on the table and lowered his head. Greg walked over and reluctantly placed a hand on Sherlock's back, he could feel his spine.

"You'll get it."

"But when?!" Sherlock turned away from the desk, "the more I wait, the more opportunities the killer gets. Who knows, another infant body will be thrown into the garbage on Gershon Street this afternoon because I wasn't quick enough," Lestrade noticed how Sherlock didn't mention his health as a factor relying on the solving of the case.

"Give me theories," Lestrade knew the only way to appease Sherlock's impatient mind was to have it do what it did best.

"The color or the hair was not dyed, it's natural, the killer actually changed his pattern from red-headed women to brown-haired women. He is picky, sensational. He will like something one minute, but the minute he's bored he moves on. The problem is thinking ahead. What would be his next interest after brunettes? Blondes? I never saw the infants coming. That threw the game off course. No familial connection between the victims. I tried to find any sort of link but nothing was evident. I need to try and think of the next place the killer will strike, but with the children, it will be hard, extremely difficult. I must deduce his next play, his next move. Where will he strike, when will he strike, and who his next victim will be."

Greg's mind boggled with ideas, "That's-"

"Impossible," came a new voice from the doorway. John stood there. His black corduroy jacket buttoned to the top, his dark gray slacks were accompanied with a pair of stylish boots. His silver hair was neatly combed and his eyes held unidentifiable emotion. Donovan and Anderson flanked him.

"He told you two to get out!" Lestrade began but Sherlock cut him off.

"John," he sounded mildly surprised. It was the most Sherlock got to sounding guilty.

"Sherlock."

"It's been-

"Two days," John finished the sentence.

"Couldn't stay away?"

"I don't think I had a choice."

"You look bloody awful," Anderson piped up, carefully scrutinizing Sherlock.

Sherlock pulled the collar of his coat higher to hide his skeletal features and turned his face away. Donovan nudged Anderson with her elbow. Even she felt bad for the psychotic detective. He had been doing all the work for them and look how it left him.

"Sherlock, you need to eat and sleep, come on we're going back to the flat-"

"I can't, John," Watson could sense Sherlock didn't want to argue any longer, but this case was too important to him, "I must solve this."

"Alright, then," John grew a little agitated, "solve it. You're the world's only consulting detective, you bloody well made the job, now use it! Tell me the answer Sherlock, why is the killer doing this? Why is he switching patterns, who will he strike next?"

Sherlock squinted his eyes, had fingers pressed against his temples and staggered a little, Lestrade was there to catch him in case he collapsed.

"No, I need time, I need evidence-"

"I"m not waiting around while another child dies, Sherlock, no time, this is our evidence. You have the world's most brilliant mind, use it. This man shouldn't be able to outsmart you, he's got heart failure for God's sakes!"

"John, maybe you should take a step back-" Lestrade began once Sherlock started to shake with frustration, his bony fingers pressed against the sides of his head.

"No, no!" John yelled, the shorter man getting in the detective inspector's face, "you don't understand what I live with! He deducts the origins of the tea bag every morning! I come home to put the groceries in the fridge and I have an ice tray full of noses instead of cubes! I stay awake to the horrid sound of violin strings being pulled apart, just so Sherlock can get Mycroft to leave! Now, if this man can do all that then he bloody well can solve this!"

"You're being unreasonable," Donovan pitched.

"Why is he doing this Sherlock?" Anderson moved in closer, crowding the tall detective.

"Yeah, Holmes, what's he doing?" John mimicked.

"Shut up! Everyone just shut up!" Sherlock growled, trying to back away.

Greg stood in front of his friend, pushing the mob of three back, "Away, give him space."

Watson pushed past him and whispered to his friend, "Think, Sherlock, think! 11 ginger women dead, 6 brunette women dead, one infant girl dead. Like you said, middle-aged man, heart failure. Death by blunt force, all bodies found in obvious places, places where the cops could find, but the baby was in the dumpster. Make the connections, Sherlock, figure it out. That's our evidence. You can do it, go to your Mind Palace."

Watson could see Sherlock's eyes were closed tight, his moving eyes visible through the lids, his head nodded and moved as he sorted through ideas, and his lips were a straight line. But there was no evidence that he was figuring out the problem.

"Sherlock," John cleared his throat and whispered low. The three inspectors were watching intently from the far side of the room as they saw the overtired detective go to work mentally, "I'm sorry. I'm sorry I yelled at you, I'm sorry I left, I'm sorry I didn't help with the case, I'm sorry that I wasn't there for you to count on, that you had to endure this yourself. You don't have a spouse or kids to help you and I should've been the one to-"

"Shh." Sherlock retorted.

John grew a little agitated, "Sherlock, I'm trying to apologize-"

"Shut up."

He made a connection.

Lestrade, Donovan, and Anderson subconsciously leaned forward, waiting.

"I've got it," Sherlock's voice was barely a whisper.

"What?"

"Family. It's family, John!" Sherlock lunged forward and gripped John's shoulders with enormous strength, "You did it, John! You helped me solve the case!"

John blamed it on Sherlock's exhaustion of why he was thanking him.

"Okay, okay," John laughed, "but explain."

"Brilliant, oh, it's brilliant," Sherlock had some of his old light in his eyes, "This man worked ten years in computer design, that means he's creative and he's technologically skilled. He creates uniquely and at the same time he's calculating. He can cover his mistakes, like editing in Photoshop for an ad. But look!" Sherlock opened up the file, "Lestrade, this man has heart failure, he wants to make a statement, send a message. The 11 ginger women that were murdered, then 6 brunettes, then one infant, each of them five digits apart."

Sherlock looked at them with triumph in his eyes, but Anderson scratched the back of his head, Donovan looked away questioningly, Lestrade tried to catch on, and John came closer to whisper to his friend.

"You might want to, um," John cleared his throat, "walk us through it, Sherlock."

"How are any of you able to take care of yourselves in the morning? Are you able to pour yourselves a cup or do you want me to think it up for you?" Sherlock shook his head like they were the mad ones, "The killer is Gerald Price."

"What?" The detective inspector yelled.

Donovan scribbled down something with her pencil on a notepad and Anderson was already making a call. Sherlock promptly walked over, pulled the notepad away and threw the mobile away from Anderson's ear.

"Wait till I finish."

"Why not now?" Anderson protested, taking a step towards the tall genius, "what gives you the right to interrupt a police investigation."

"Anderson-" Lestrade began.

"No, really," Anderson grew red, "I don't like the way you-"

"Enough with this childish manner, Anderson," Sherlock said coolly and calmly, "my mind has finished its work, my body is betraying me. Any second now, the lack of rest or food will soon catch up with me and I will fall. Every second counts."

Anderson shut up.

"If you'll let me begin?" Sherlock raised his eyebrows and looked around to each of them in turn, "very well. The killer was married to Mrs. Deborah Price, notice the 'was' past tense. She died from an accidental overdose at age 34 and her hair was a vibrant shade of red. Gerald and Deborah had been married for 11 years, note the 11 dead ginger-haired women between the ages of 30-35. Now, five years into their marriage, the couple had a daughter named Caroline who died at age 8 from an automobile accident involving a bus speeding off a road and into the ravine, she was a brunette. Note the 8 dead brunette women around ages 7-15. Finally, five years later, the couple are ready to begin trying to start a family again. However, the baby at 4 months age was found dead in the cradle from Sudden Infant Death Syndrome. Deborah, enraged and miserable, threw the child away in the garbage, never the same after such a traumatic life. One begins to question the _accidental_ overdose. Each death was five years apart, the murderer killed as many women as how long he had with each female. 11 years with his wife, 8 years with his daughter, and less than one with his infant child. The killer has finished his spree now, and with his terminal heart condition, he will be plotting his final hoorah, his big show, the finale. He's a computer man and an inventor, it will be something dramatic, something flamboyant."

Sherlock's body seemed to shake for a minute and he stumbled, steadying himself on the chair. John took a step forward, but Sherlock put up a hand to signal he was alright.

"How did you know it was Gerald Price?"

"Bored," Sherlock shrugged, "I read the Obituary section of the paper. I significantly remember an article about the dead child in the dumpster, the fatal bus crash, and the vague and grainy photo of a woman dead from an accidental overdose. Each was five years apart but they all had the same last name in common: Price. For a bored mind, I did a little digging, but nothing significant. I remember reading that Gerald had a father who died as well from genetic heart failure: Carlton Price."

Sherlock winced and held his side. John grew antsy."

Lestrade smiled wide and proud, clapping his two detective lackeys on the back, knowing better than to give Sherlock a hug.

"Great work, Holmes!" He grinned.

"Well, it wasn't much-" the crashing detective faltered with his words.

"Wait, but this last hoorah, what do you mean? When will it be? Where will it be?" Donovan moved closer.

"Maybe that's for another day-" John began.

The lights flickered. The detective inspector didn't make much of it until he saw Sherlock's terrified expression.

"Oh, dear God," he had a ghost of a smile on his lips, "he is dramatic indeed."

Lestrade whipped his gun out the holster, Anderson raced to pull the fire alarm, Donovan ushered John away from the windows and to the guards outside, not daring to touch Sherlock.

In an instant, everything happened. The computer screens flickered and blacked out only coming back to life with one message.

 _Clever boy, but not for much longer._

The screens crackled and sparked. The detective inspector tried giving orders over the screaming and clamor of a terrified staff, the lights shuddered and died, Scotland Yard had been taken under siege and in that moment, Sherlock collapsed.

John tried to fight Donovan when he saw Sherlock Holmes crumple to the floor like a sack of potatoes.

"Sherlock!" he tried to push past the female detective, but for a woman she was strong.

"John!" Donovan pushed back with her strength, "you need to listen to me!"

It had turned from order to utter chaos in a few seconds. The fire alarms blared, lights flickered and died, papers flew through the air, the computers were sparking and sputtering, Detective Inspector Lestrade was trying to yell orders to a mob of frightened staff, the killer was inside the building, John was fighting her grip, Anderson was helping Lestrade, and their favorite psychopath just passed out.

"Anderson!" she called for her partner, "help me!"

The black haired detective came rushing over.

"Get Sherlock on the chair," she ordered, "do it now!"

Anderson instead shouldered John's pressing wait from her arm and began to restrain him Scotland Yard style. Donovan got the message and sprinted over to the "consulting detective". This was the first sort of rest he had been getting for five days and now she needed to wake him up.

"Holmes!" she shook his large shoulders, "get up! Get up, you arse!"

His eyelids flickered but that was all.

Donovan looked around for something. She saw a bucket of ice on Greg's alcohol cart, the ice had melted from the night before and he hadn't any time to fill it up again. A cup of hot tea sat on his desk from his ride over. It'll do. She pulled him by his arms behind the desk where it was safe and positioned him so his back was up against it. Donovan grabbed the bucket of melted ice in one hand and the hot drink in the other and stood over the detective.

"Cheers."

She splashed the scalding tea on his face and then drowned him in a bucket of freezing water.

Just then, the killer attacked. Donovan heard Detective Inspector Lestrade from the doorway, "GET DOWN!"

Not enough time. The sparking computers in the staff room outside his office exploded in fiery flames. Screams died as the computer bombs went off. Greg was thrown into his office and Donovan ran over to close the door. Anderson had a burn on his forearm and John was bleeding from a cut on his temple. The detective inspector had blood seeping through his shirt from a piece of burning debris stuck in his shoulder.

Donovan kneeled over him, trying to use her training to assist her in removing the piece of scalding metal. He tried to say something to her but he bit his lip from the pain.

"Shh," she ripped his suit sleeve, "don't speak."

"No-" he began but he stopped when Donovan gripped the debris in her hand.

"What?" she leaned down, he kept trying to form words.

"The computer."

Donovan whipped her head around to see the sparking monitor on Greg's desk. Anderson pushed him and John behind a chair and Donovan did the same. A horrible thought came to her mind. Sherlock was behind the desk.

John realized it too, "SHERLOCK!" he yelled.

All four of them turned their faces to try and shield themselves from the explosion. After a suspenseful second, nothing happened. Anderson dared to steal a look and his mouth dropped. Sherlock stood with his hair wet and dripping, his posture heavy but rigid, one hand with bloody knuckles held the computer hard drive, it looked like a heart with veins and wire sticking out in all directions, his other hand held the broken monitor with a fist-sized hole in the screen.

"I'm gone all of two minutes and all hell breaks loose," the detective dropped the equipment.

 **More to come:) Keep coming back to check out how the detective team fare as Scotland Yard has been taken under siege...**


	4. Chapter 4

"Sherl-" John didn't even finish his sentence, with something between a gasp and a wheeze, the former dignified and distinguished military man ran over and gave Sherlock a hug.

Sherlock awkwardly patted John's back.

Lestrade, determined to not show pain, waved Donovan off and pulled his coat over the burgundy stain spreading across his button down shirt.

"Are you alright, Sherlock?" he asked warily.

"All right? Of course I'm all right! Why wouldn't I be all right?"  
"Sherlock," John scoffed indignantly, "you haven't eaten or slept in five days! Now, excuse me for thinking someone wouldn't be okay after continuous work and mind games, but you haven't even rested!"

"Well, sure I did!" Sherlock pointed to the spot he collapsed at, "right there."

"For two bloody minutes!"

"And I'm fully charged," Sherlock clicked his tongue.

Lestrade shook his head. He knew the detective was lying, the exhaustion in his stature and face told him so. Sherlock was running on fumes once again and sooner or later he'd break down and Lestrade didn't want to be there when it happened.

John, relieved that Sherlock seemed like his normal self, dropped all medical guidance and began to help, "the killer is in the building and he's set off computer bombs. Now if that doesn't seem like the grand finale to me then I don't know what could be next."

"Innovative and tech savvy," Sherlock whispered to himself, "I love it."

Anderson gave him an irritated look.

"Anderson, don't try to voice your input, our ears will bleed," Sherlock began to examine the destroyed computer parts, "Donovan, come here."

She approached. Sherlock handed her the oily and greasy hard drive from the computer mainframe.

He winked at her, "Cheers."

She rolled her eyes as black grease stained her shirt and Sherlock looked for the signal of the computer.

"Think," he spoke to himself, "Ten years as a graphic designer, how do I know how to set off a computer bomb?"

"Rewired harddrive?" John inputed.

"Unlikely," Sherlock shook his head, "you can't rewire it to be explosive, this has something to do with the wiring," he paused, "plus, if it was the hard drive, Donovan is holding it, not me."

Her face went pale.

"The wiring?" Greg hobbled over, "how would a graphic designer know how to rewire a computer? And no one got in or out, nothing on the cameras."

"Maybe he has a man inside?" Anderson shrugged.

"No," Lestrade shut him down, "the staff is background checked and besides no one uses every single computer, it's usually just one or two."

"Maintenance?" Donovan pointed out, "maybe they used their access to hack it."

"But Bram has been on the staff for 17 years, he would never," Lestrade said, incredulously.

"Greg," John said softly, "you need to be considering all options here."

"No, no, no, shut up! Just shut up!" Sherlock grabbed his head and paced, "I can't think with your useless thoughts mucking everything up! My brain is like a machine, I can't have your opinions clogging up the tanks. I've seen this case for seven days now, and this man knows how I play, he knows how I think."

"Precisely," Anderson cut in, "maybe that's why we need an outside look of it, a fresh perspective."

"Anderson," Sherlock whispered threateningly, "one more word and out with the computer bombs you go."

"Enough," John stopped them, "people have died. Many people. Those innocent women, the children, the infant, and now the staff. This man is psychotic-"

"Oh, looks like he and Sherlock have a similar characteristic."

"Anderson!" Greg shouted.

"As I was saying," John spoke up, annoyed, "we must catch this man before any more people are injured or killed. Sherlock, we know you are tired and overworked so you can't just shut out or opinions because you have a different plan, we are going to work as a team, alright? Sherlock? Anderson?"

"Alright," the dark haired officer pouted.

"Fine," the lean detective screwed up his face.

"Good, now, any ideas?"

Donovan set down the hard drive and pulled out her flashlight, "the grease, on my shirt, it doesn't smell like grease. My dad used to own an auto shop, I went there as a kid. I know what it smells like, what it feels like and this definitely isn't it."

"Another compound could be mixed in it," Sherlock grabbed a sample of it and held it up to the light, "orange tint. Definitely another element present."

"Lestrade," John turned to the detective inspector, "have there been any changes in office supply shipment or product?"

His face was white and he nodded gravely, "I signed off on it."

"Bloody hell," Anderson placed a sweaty hand to his forehead, "this is great, just marvelous."

"Nobody panic," Sherlock stumbled a bit and held himself up with the desk.

"Tea, water, someone get him some please," John ordered.

Anderson actually hurried up his walk a bit. Maybe he finally realized Sherlock would be their only chance of solving the case.

"Earl Grey, two cubes," Sherlock panted. He felt a little worried. The case just got to a new level of intriguing, he couldn't let his body betray him now. Food and rest? Unimportant.

Anderson brought it over. John looked as Sherlock took it in his shaky hands and the odd tint to the tea. John made Earl Grey everyday at home, it had become automatic to him and he knew the color of the drink but this one had a burgundy look to it. Maybe it was the light? Sherlock brought the edge of the cup to his white lips.

Donovan spoke up, "what do the office supplies have to do with anything?"

"Think," Sherlock said after a large gulp, "package the explosives in the new supplies, Merry Christmas Scotland Yard."

"But I only signed off on the small materials like copy paper, ink cartridges, rubber bands, staples," his face returned to normal color, "there couldn't be explosives in this, could there?"

"Well, we can rule out rubber bands and staples," Donovan piped up, "but ink cartridges maybe?"

"But the explosives were in the computers," John shook his head, keeping an eye on Sherlock, "it couldn't be. Maybe it has something to do with the outlets?"

"No, no, no," Sherlock scrunched up his face, "nothing, no evidence, no connections, no deductions. We need to move," he threw back the rest of his tea, "as much as I like your office, Gavin, it's about time we checked the rest of the building."

"Greg, first off," Lestrade corrected, "and I want to split up. I normally don't like doing that, but we're a bigger target together and we can cover more ground, possibly find an escape route. It'll be Donovan and myself, Anderson and John, Sherlock stays here."

The detective stopped in his tracks.

"Bloody hell I'm staying behind," he growled, "you need me."

"Not that much," Anderson said under his breath.

Sherlock ignored it, "you have no idea how this man works, no idea how he thinks. I've been studying him for days now, you have no chance against him!"

"Sherlock," John said quietly, "maybe he's right, you need to stay behind and rest. As a doctor, I know that medically speaking you'll run yourself to the end if you go out there and continue this chase. Use your mobile, stay put, keep us updated. This gives you time to think."

"Besides," Donovan looked him up and down, "you're a walking corpse."

"Shut up, _Sally_ ," he hissed, "I'm perfectly fi-"

He straightened up and stiffened. His eyes went wide and his face went even whiter if that was even possible. A hand flew up to his chest and pressed tight.

"Sherlock?" Lestrade hobbled over, "say something? What's wrong?"

A tantalizing second passed. Sherlock abruptly dropped his hands and his face was expressionless, "I'm fine.:

"Like hell you are!" Anderson shouted, "the psychopath with psychotic episodes, sounds accurate doesn't it? _I'm_ not walking around with you and Donovan already has Lestrade's shoulder to deal with. She's trained medically not psychologically."

Sherlock abruptly stopped his protest, very unsherlocky, "Fine, maybe I'll stay here, you're right."

"Wait, what?!" Anderson sputtered, "can I hear that again?"

"No, hold on," John came closer to his friend, "Sherlock, what's wrong? What the hell just happened?"

"John, just go. Give me your mobile and get out of here you lot, you're wasting precious time that I cannot regain. I'll keep in touch. Any whiff of Price and you contact me immediately."

"Let's go," Lestrade grunted, Donovan managed to create a tourniquet around his shoulder to stop the bleeding.

"No, you all go, I'll stay," John said.

"Don't be an idiot, John," Sherlock shook his head, "you're my eyes and ears, you need to tell me everything that's going on. You know what to look for, I've trained you well enough."

"You act as if I'm taking your place, like you're going to leave…or something worst."

"Oh, I'm not going anywhere," Sherlock picked up his empty paper cup and switched it from hand to hand, "not until Gerald Price has been caught."

"Let's move out," Donovan went to the door, "Detective Inspector, you and I will take the left wing. Anderson and John, the right."

John still searched Sherlock's eyes. Something was wrong but he knew the detective, there was no way he'd tell John anything that could potentially stop the investigation. Sherlock may have already solved most of the mystery, but he wouldn't stop until every bit of the puzzle was filled. All he could do was wait and see how Sherlock's plans would play out.

Sherlock watched them go, they closed the door without even the slightest of noise as to not attract any attention from the murderer Gerald Price. As soon as the last bit of Anderson's shirt disappeared from the doorway, Sherlock threw the paper teacup down on the table. He hadn't been aware of the poison that been present in his tea when he was drinking it. But the symptoms soon showed and Sherlock recalled the poisons chart from his Science of Deduction webpage. Hemlock. It was sourced from a planet and every part of it was lethal. An idiot, he was such an idiot, the killer had been stalking him for days now. Price knew what he wanted, how he lived, his quirks, his lifestyle, his friends, his family, even how he took his tea. Earl Grey with two cubes. Now he understood the constant precautions John took, it was for this reason. But Sherlock had never experienced something like this before. Never. He knew when he finished the tea that his exhaustion and his complete focus on the current case had dulled his senses. The red tint of his tea should've been a clear sign, the gradual loss of sight in is left eye, intense pain in his abdomen, muscle deterioration as he stumbled. But the best part was his mind would remain lucid until the poison engulfed him as Hemlock didn't affect the brain. That was the killer trying to play with him, a game of cat and mouse, crook and dagger. It was sort of the perfect death, Sherlock's body would slowly deteriorate and give in as his mind continued to propel forward with newfound ideas and deductions. A cold feeling creeped up his spine. What if he wasn't able to finish the case in time, what if he didn't last long enough to finally question Gerald Price. He estimated he had 42 minutes until the poison really took hold and killed him. 41 minutes for him to go unconscious and lie there for at least a full minute until the toxin corrupted his heart. 42 minutes not to die, 42 minutes to make a wild deduction, 42 minutes to catch a killer.

This case just got a hell of a lot better. He ruffled his hair and his eyes glowed with urgency.

Game on.

"Anderson," John called softly, "over here."

He pointed his flashlight at the remains of the burnt computers. The lights were out and emergency lights flashed, adding a darker and more suspenseful aura to the office. Bits of electric wire and keys were black with soot and glass shards scattered the floors, pierced the walls. He tried to not look too closely through the wreckage of plaster and people to see the bodies and blood of the Yard staff in front of him. A cold sweat broke on John's forehead as his mind started to think of the fallen soldiers during his time in the war.

 _Stop,_ John scolded himself. He needed to stay sharp and alert for Sherlock.

30 minutes ago, these people still had their lives and plans for Thursday afternoon, but now their families would be planning funeral services. Watson had seen many, _many_ things with Sherlock, but the screams that echoed from these offices would never stop in his mind. It was up to the small detective crew to create some sort of closure, some sort of act that showed the evil man who did this would no get away. His mind went into overdrive, like it did in the war, when he would be alert and everything would be clearer, blotting everything out except his objectives. He always felt part of Sherlock had rubbed off on him after observing so many cases of the mastermind genius, but even if he thought he was a few paces behind Sherlock, the detective would still be miles ahead. A lingering thought kept nodding at the back of his mind, something important that he missed or disregarded. Anderson came up to his shoulder.

"Well, looks like the psychopath actually did you some good," the dark-haired forensic officer looked at what John found. It was a half-burned piece of paper with singed edges that had some sort of code on it. It was a riddle of symbols and incoherent numbers that John couldn't decipher.

"What does it mean?"

Anderson gave him a sideways look, "I don't know, why are you asking so many questions?"

"I'm a detective," John defended himself, "I have to ask questions for a living."

"Yeah, and I collect and analyze evidence for a living," he retorted, "I need to get this to the Lab."

"Where is that?"

"Basement level."

"Brilliant," John rolled his eyes, "whoever the architect for this building was didn't really plan for this type of incident."

"It's not like we were expecting a war zone down here," the forensic inspector looked at him, "plus you're bred for this."

"What do you mean by that?"

"Northumberland, wasn't it? You fought in the Afghan war and when you return you happen to settle down and move in with Sherlock, the danger _magnet._ You love this life. The constant thrill and chase, following one of the world's most craziest minds, it's what you're attracted to. Haven't you stopped to think that Scotland Yard wouldn't be a war zone if Sherlock hadn't pursued Gerald Price? It's because of yours truly that all of

these good people died," Anderson's face was dark and cold, "Come on stairs are that way."

John followed the walking man, "and you blame him for all this? First off, it was the killer who planted all these bombs and you people were the ones that presented him with the case in the first place. Maybe if your forces did a better job of monitoring the people they wouldn't become psycho maniacs killing innocent women, we wouldn't be in this mess!"

Anderson just stared at the former war doctor, the shorter John confronting him. He could see the fierce loyalty that Watson held for Holmes. Well, that's what they had become now. Best friends, master and dog, Sherlock and John.

"Like you said," John spoke low, "stairs are that way."

The retired army doctor led the way to the Forensics Lab.

"Donovan, come here," Lestrade called for his officer. They were in the break room on the third floor. Donovan insisted they go there once's Greg's tourniquet was soaked in blood. She was wringing a rag filled with water over the sink and removed the soiled wrap from his shoulder.

"What?" She asked him, her eyes were filled with concern for her boss. Without proper care, the wound could get infected.

"Did you notice anything…odd about Sherlock?"

She gave him a queer look, "It's Sherlock, he always generally strange," she commented, "why do you ask?"

"I couldn't put my finger on it, but I think John noticed it too."

"It's Holmes, Greg, that man could spot crazy and odd in the next hemisphere if he wanted too. We don't know what goes through that mind, all we do is ask it to solve our problems."

"You're right," Lestrade made a sullen face, "that's kind of horrible, isn't it?All we do is ask him to resolve our cases, I mean what would we do without him?"

"I hate to admit it, absolutely hate, but we probably all be without a job. And don't be sorry, he loves it, he lives off it. It's better for us to give him productive things to do with that mind than have the next murderer we're chasing be Sherlock Holmes. I'm just surprised the Yard administration board hasn't guessed that we've sought outside help yet."

Greg chuckled a bit but stopped abruptly, "Sorry."

"What?" You laughed, there's nothing to be sorry about."

"People have died, our friends, our coworkers, and here I am lucky to be alive and I'm laughing when they never will be able to again," Lestrade felt himself start to choke up.

"Detective Inspector, we are all mournful of the deaths that have occurred here tonight, hell I know when I go home I'll open a nice bottle of scotch to wash away the horrors of tonight, but by now help has to be on the way to come rescue us and Sherlock Holmes will solve the case. We know him, he won't die until it's over. But the people who have given their lives tonight didn't in vain. They were essential clues for Sherlock to use to catch Price, and it'll bring peace to them and their families when this man is captured and brought before a court of justice."

"Very well said, detective, thank you," he felt himself ease a little and a newfound sense of motivation surge within him, "ow," he groaned as Donovan pressed the rag against his wound, "ow-uh….Donovan?"

"Yes, sorry, I know it hurts-"

"No," Greg quickly pulled away from her, "can you go get me a cup of water?"

She looked into his eyes, they screamed with urgency. He was trying to tell her something. Her senses immediately went on high alert and she felt the temperature drop 10 degrees, but she needed to stay casual.

"Yeah, sure," her tone was normal but her entire body was spinning with suspense. She stepped to the sink and turned on the faucet. In her peripheral vision, she could see Lestrade getting the gun from his belt. As she turned around, the little Dixie cup in her hand, he gave her a quick nod to his right.

"Thanks, detective," he grabbed the cup and pretended to take a sip, "so how do you suppose we go about catching Price?"

Slowly she moved her body to face the direction Lestrade nodded to. A shadow plastered the blue wall. It was of a slightly overweight tall man with a gun in his hand. It was the murderer. It was Gerald Price. He was here in the break room. Donovan felt her body flush with dread.

Donovan resisted the urge to scream.

"Um, I don't know," she tried her absolute hardest to keep her voice from shaking, "I think we should gather clues for Holmes first and go about it from there."

The shadow took a tentative step closer, closer to Donovan and the Detective Inspector. Her eyes met Lestrade's and silent messages passed between them. He wanted her to continue their little charade.

"You're right," he responded, "that's a good approach, detective, I'm proud. I think that we should keep scanning the third floor just to make sure it's completely clear, what do you think?"

The shadow halted in its tracks. One foot was placed carefully in front of the other, the large man held a gun in his hand that was clearly seen in his shadow.

"I say we head through the second-floor cubicles and to the copy room to regroup and also so I can redress the wound."

Lestrade nodded slightly, his eyes never left the image of the figure on the wall, "you're rights, that's a good plan." His left hand, the one not holding the weapon, grabbed a napkin from the counter and a pen, "do you think Sherlock will be able to stop this man?" He wasn't looking as he sloppily scribbled something down.

Donovan's teeth chattered as she saw the shadow of Gerald Price turn his head a little to hear more. Greg Lestrade was good, he was prompting conversation that he knew would delay the Price because he would want to hear. The safety of his gun was turned off.

"I believe he could, considering he's been doing it for a week now I think we can stop this man."

Lestrade silently and casually slipped the napkin to her.

One word was printed on it: DUCK.

Donovan dove to the floor. Lestrade clicked the trigger of his gun three times towards the direction of the shadow. Three shots and one hit its target. Blood splattered against the wall.

"RUN! RUN! RUN!" Lestrade yelled as he covered Donovan with his body and kept shooting bullets from his gun.

They sprinted to the doorway. The Detective Inspector fired six shots in all and had no more ammunition left against the killer who slowly began to rise from the floor, Price's gun pointed directly at the two. They ran like hell was on their heels.


	5. Chapter 5

**Hello to my amazing readers! I am so grateful for your reviews and a shoutout to those who have stuck with this since the beginning! Your encouragement is a huge motivation and I hope you all enjoy these last few chapters of the story! But it's not over yet! To my lovely reviewers, let me know what you think;)**

Sherlock held his head in his hands but immediately perked up when he heard foreboding gunshots above him. They sounded muffled but his heart clenched with worry.

"John?" he said aloud, absently. He slipped his hand into his pocket and grabbed his mobile. Long fingers typed the number he dedicated to memory.

One ring.

Was John up there?

Two rings.

Was he taken as a hostage?

Three rings.

Could he have been shot?

Four rings.

Could he have been kill-

"Hello?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "Anderson, put John on this instant."

He could hear the distant voice of the forensic officer address the former army doctor, "it's your girlfriend on the line."

"Hello, Sherlock? What is it? What's wrong? Have you gotten any intel on Price?"

"What-no, are you alright?"

"Yeah, why? What's happened?"

"I heard-nothing. Must've been something else."

"Sherlock, you're acting strangely. I know it wasn't _something else_ , so come on. I know your tired, not at full strength but we need you right now. The murderer is roaming the building with us at this very moment and do not think you're completely safe in Lestrade's office either. Still remember that there are live people in this building, two of them being us."

 _Soon to be one of us,_ he thought.

"Did you come across anything? Find any patterns? Collected any evidence?"

Sherlock cursed at himself once he finished talking. He knew that the killer was a technologically acquirable person, he must be careful with what he said over the phone in case certain unwanted ears were listening.

"We found something."

"What? What is it?"

"I-I don't think I should tell you like this."

Sherlock smiled. John was thinking like him now.

"You're right," he nodded, "Has Mrs. Hudson replaced the wallpaper yet? It's looking a bit dull."

"I can assure you that the Vatican Cameos are in check."

"Thank you, Watson."

Sherlock hung up the phone.

The killer would be kicking himself at this point. Sherlock and John agreed to make secret phrases encoded for only their understanding. Sherlock knew exactly the message John told him: battle stations. Sherlock asked the question, John could either answer with the safe word, Gladstone Valley, or the distress word, Vatican Cameos. The murderer at this point would be wondering what piece of evidence John had found, that meant he wasn't safe. That also meant Lestrade and Donovan had been assaulted by the killer because of those gunshots he heard. And finally, that meant that Sherlock had created a deduction. It was the time they met.

"How's everything?" John paced by Anderson, ever second they wasted was a commodity. Anderson seemed to have been bending over that charred paper for hours but it was barely 20 minutes ago that they had opened the sealed doors to the lab.

"Fine," he huffed, "like I said 3 minutes ago.."

"What is it?"

"It's a burned piece of paper, John," Anderson looked up, the magnifying glass in his hand made his right eye blow up in size, I'll tell you when it's magically become something else."

"Have you, at least, started deciphering the code?"

"John, the main power frame is shut down. The 3D X-ray imaging scan cannot fully function on backup power. Yes, I've started deciphering it, and yes I will tell you when it says something so you can call Sherlock to save the day and disregard any help aided by Scotland Yard, yeah?"

"Good."

"Alright."

A moment of silence passed. Anderson went back to looking through the magnifying glass. John checked the time on his phone. Sherlock wanted the evidence but Anderson insisted on it being properly analyzed before taking it to the consulting detective. John thought it was because Anderson wanted to act like he knew what he was doing but in front of the Great Sherlock Holmes.

"Hold on, hold on," John spoke, Anderson rolled his eyes, "where is your backup team? I mean, isn't there some sort of additional security teams or some kind of provisions present for this kind of situation?"

"John, Scotland Yard has been around since 1829, that's 187 years. Of course, there is some sort of security measures being taken to-"

A burst of static interrupted Anderson as radio feedback rang from the intercom systems.

"Wrong!"

Anderson pulled out his gun and John did the same.

A merry voice laughed painfully, it sounded strained, "Aha! You little detectives! Trying to work your way through the puzzle, isn't that right? Mr. Holmes couldn't even crack my code for several days now, what makes you think you can?"

Anderson pointed his gun at all angles of the room, searching for some sort of camera or connection between both parties.

"Don't point your little guns to and fro, didn't your mother always tell you that was rude?"

John and Anderson both reacted, they shot the security cameras in the corners of the laboratory.

"I thought you said the power was out!" John hissed as the sound of their gunshots reverberated off the walls and pierced Watson's ears.

"It is! The backup mainframe is running but security protocols won't reset unless the password is given to the main computer by the Detective Inspector in-"

Anderson cut short, he looked at John with accusing eyes.

"What is it?!" John narrowed his eyes threateningly.

"The only way security protocols would be activated once again is if the Detective Inspector were to insert the code himself in the main computer in his office."

John shook his head, he knew what Anderson was referring to. Sherlock was the only on in DI Lestrade's office, only he would have the power to give the killer exactly what he needed. The dark-haired detective's mind was already set on one idea alone: Sherlock Holmes was aiding the murderer Gerald Price.

Lestrade gasped as he and Donovan found a utility closet they jumped inside. Even though they had outrun the killer by two floors, multiple hallways, and countless doors, they still ran. Finally, once the shock of the whole encounter started to pass, Sally donut their little hiding place. Lestrade's shoulder wound reopened once again and fresh blood poured across his damp shirt. The jagged edge of the debris that struck his limb created a burgundy cut deep into his skin. He needed stitches and proper medical attention, not this stop-and-go, use whatever you have, routine. But it was the only thing that was keeping Lestrade from critical condition. This constant chase and the high-pressure situation was probably killing him along with keeping him alive.

The cloth material stuck to the drying blood on his skin and he cringed when Donovan had to yank it off. She used a clean towel from the closet to press it against the GSW and began to wipe away some of the blood pouring from his arm.

"Greg," she stopped for a moment and looked at him sternly, "you can't move, I need to stop the bleeding."

He nodded slightly, biting the inside of his cheek, "just make it quick."

Sure he was Detective Inspector and yes he had his fair share of injuries but it never felt food, even with an anesthetic.

Donovan grabbed the pocket knife from her belt and cut a piece of fabric from a clean towel on the shelf. Greg yearned for some of the brandy in his office. His eyes watered and he grunted into the towel placed over his mouth as Donovan properly and roughly pressed against the shoulder wound to stop the bleeding from the explosion.

Donovan noticed Greg's pale complexion when she had to apply pressure to the injury but it was all her mind needed to focus on right now or she was seriously worried she would have a panic attack. In her coat pocket she pulled out a small bag of half-eaten Cheetos she munched on earlier and handed it to her superior. She had called for backup from the Yard but no agent could come in when their main office was essentially blockaded. Something had to be done and she didn't know when someone was coming to help. A tech genius killer was loose in the building, she wished Anderson was by her side, and she had no clue about Sherlock, ever. The officer just hoped that he would think of something quick or Detective Inspector Lestrade was going to end up on the name list of the dead.

Sally let Lestrade doze off for a moment. He needed it after all that running. She knew it was probably the wrong thing to do, but the injury was relatively clean and she was 75% sure that Greg was going to be all right. He groaned behind her. More like 70% sure. All she needed was some proper medical equipment and Greg would be right as rain, but they were locked in a closet. The courageous officers of Scotland Yard. A thorough string of static burst from the intercom overhead.

"What the?" Greg jumped up from the sound.

Donovan looked around in confusion, could it be Anderson and John trying to signal her? Outside help coming to relieve them? Sherlock about to brag on how he defeated the murderer?

"Sally Donovan, Greg Lestrade."

Her blood went cold.

"I applaud you."

It wasn't any voice she recognized, but she knew it could only be one.

"You have provided to be a minor setback," the voice said cruelly, "but I will not stop."

Sally looked down at Greg who stared at the door grimly. Where was Sherlock when you needed him?

"Don't believe that you are safe in that pitiful utility closet now that you've only just escaped."

She froze and Lestrade scrambled to his feet.

"And leaving it won't do you any good either," the voice laughed, but it was strained. Donovan remembered that Lestrade's bullet tagged him.

"Oh, what will the killer do now?" Greg noticed he didn't say his name as he was speaking, "Will he find us? Will he bomb us? Oh, please, I just want to open up a bottle of brandy when I get home, isn't that right, Agent Donovan?"

Sally felt like disappearing from this world.

"Better yet, maybe I can share it with you?" she could hear the deep and raspy undertone in his voice.

"Can-can you hear us?"

"Loud and clear, detective," he laughed cynically.

"Why have you done this?" Lestrade called, his tape recorder hidden discreetly in his palm.

"Ask your snide consulting detective to riddle it out for you, like every other one of your cases," the murderer snarled over the speaker, "you lot are useless if you can't even think this one out for yourselves. It's always questions, questions, questions with the Yard. Never answers never results. You rely on one man to solve your problems. Haven't you ever what will happen when even the Great Sherlock Holmes falls? And it won't be long now."

"What is it?" the detective inspector yelled, fire boiling in his veins, "what have you done to Sherlock?"

"I'd say I've freed him."

"You bastard!" Greg screamed with fury, blood seeped through his new bandage and his eyes looked like bruises around the rims.

"You don't listen, do you? None of you ever do. Sherlock is an unstoppable machine, even when he's almost had his time. I'd give it another 16 minutes. You keep him on a leash like he's some mad dog, but he's not. He's a clever mutt. The more you tighten his leash, the more you poke him, the more he's angry, ruined. Takes his smokes, stop him from being himself, have the landlady downstairs feed you information, throw him case after case like meat to keep him close, fuel his fire. You sicken me. People like Sherlock need to roam free, but if he can't in this world, let him do it somewhere else. He's almost there, the old bastard, he's almost solved my case."

"What does he mean?" Donovan whispered darkly to her boss. Her heart fluttered.

"I'll leave you to rest on that information," the voice cackled before tuning out.

"Damnit!" Lestrade dropped the recorder and gripped the edge of the shelf next to him.

"What's he mean, sir?" Donovan's voice shook.

"Sherlock is dying. I don't know how and I don't know why but he is."

A tear slid down her cheek, "But he's supposed to get us out of here."

"Is that all you can think of?" Greg suddenly turned on her, "after all that's happened, everything he's done for us and now you're only care is for him to get you out of here alive?!"

That's his job, Lestrade! Getting out in the field is mine! The only way I'll be able to do that is if he can get us all out. Dozens of people have died today, Greg." her voice softened, "it's our duty to avenge them and the only way for that to happen is if Holmes is to stop this monster, even if it kills him."

Greg knew Donovan was only speaking like this because she was scared, in shock, and traumatized from the events of the last hour. God, it had only been an hour? What 60 minutes could do to someone was unthinkable. To think that Greg had gone home a bit to see Watson and the Yard staff was working away here at the office. His heart tore.

"Enough of this," he snapped, "Donovan when this is done and if we get out of here alive I'm recommending you to take a leave of absence on the parameters of psychological illness and trauma."

"I'll be doing that myself, sir," she looked down, "for now let's get Anderson and John and see if we can get out of here with our lives."

"Lestrade shakily stood on his legs and opened the door for Donovan who stepped out. Her face was white and she held a gun in front of her. Before closing the door, Lestrade held up one finger in front of the camera's lens. You can guess what finger it was.


	6. Chapter 6

**Wow! What a chapter! I thought I would upload this chapter sooner because, to be honest, even I want to read! Shout-out to my amazing reviewers, you guys rock, truly! I was listening to Lux Aeterna (a pretty dramatic song) while writing this and started getting goosebumps! Sherlock's adventure will soon end but get ready for a couple more twists and, finally, an answer to Sherlock's riddle! Enjoy and continue reviewing and any suggestions to the ending if you guys want!**

Anderson looked up from his microscope, which he was watching intently, when his mobile beeped in his trouser pocket. He searched for it, his hand digging through the pocket and John tilted his head towards him. The phone screen had a name on it that gave him some relief.

LESTRADE

"Ello?" he spoke into it, supporting the mobile with his shoulder as he continued to look at the parchment under the scope.

"Anderson?"

Lestrade's voice sounded tight and worried.

"Detective Inspector."

"Where are you? How are you?"

"The Lab, Watson and I found what I think is a worthy piece of evidence, I've got to analyze it and take it back to Holmes so he can feel satisfied and not bug my brains about it."

"Watson is still with you?"

Anderson looked at Sherlock's companion, "Yeah."

"What's he saying?" John came up to him. Phillip held up a hand to silence him.

"Whatever I'm about to tell you, promise you won't repeat to John, you cannot otherwise the investigation would be compromised."

"I swear by my oath, sir," Anderson cupped the speaker with his hand to keep it away from John. Watson tried to approach him but Anderson turned his back.

"Sherlock is dying."

The information made Anderson stiffen slightly. John didn't miss a beat, he came into the forensic scientist's line of vision, "What is it? What happened?"

"Gerald Price," Lestrade continued to speak to the silent Anderson, "the bastard, I don't know how or what, but we need to get to him. Donovan's shaken up and I hate to say it but I don't think I can trek on much longer. We had a little run-in with Price and I over-exerted my energy. Meet at my office in five minutes. Bring the paper and John, but whatever you do. DON'T tell him about Sherlock, the poor soul."

"I understand, sir," Anderson nodded, "sir?"

"Yeah?"

"Keep her safe."

"Will do."

Lestrade had guessed a while back of Anderson's secret fraternization with Sally.

The officer closed the line.

"Tell me, what is it? Give it to me straight."

"Lestrade and Donovan had a slight encounter with the killer," Anderson stuffed the mobile away in his pocket. His face was straight and his tone was unwavering.

John studied him intently. Anderson seemed thoughtful, but could he trust this man? Anderson never was keen of Sherlock, never kind, rarely caring. Could Watson trust the words of this man? But his tone was sure and his tone was unrevealing, he wasn't Sherlock who could tell a man's intentions just by his stance. But Anderson wasn't caring or nice, if something happened to Sherlock he'd relish in the moment when he broke horrifying news to John about his best friend. It seemed like a natural Phillip Anderson thing to do.

"Are they alright?" John asked, he was wary.

"Fine," Anderson shrugged, acting as convincing as he could, and looked back down at his work, "as much as I hate to admit it, we have to get Sherlock. The Lab is no longer safe and I should've escorted us to a more safer premises when he used the intercom. I'm sorry to have failed you as my position as a member of Scotland Yard."

John was really confused. This was so unlike Anderson! Apologies, admitting to Sherlock being right, what was next, a happy birthday cake?

"It's alright," John looked the man up and down. Those words probably killed him, "I'm a detective too, I should've handled us and the situation better as well. Now, why do we need to get this to Sherlock when you were so adamant on analyzing it first?"

"God, you ask a lot of questions."

"I had a good teacher."

"Turn of events," Anderson had his head bowed and placed the burned parchment in an evidence bag before walking quickly to the door, "we need to leave now."

John shook his head. Something was going on and Anderson wasn't telling him, he would just have to sit along for the ride and see where it took him.

Lestrade, Donovan, Watson, and Anderson all burst into the Detective Inspector's office at once. They made it through the building in record time and slammed the heavy wooden doors shut. All of them were out of breath and Greg winced while holding his shoulder.

"Damn," he said under his breath.

"Let me take a look," Sally escorted him to a chair at the corner of the room, she went and grabbed some alcohol from the beverage cart and a few napkins.

Greg ripped the sleeve off with his good arm and eyed the alcohol bottles in Sally's hand cautiously.

"Detective Inspector, I need to clean the-"

"Not with those hands," John came over and relieved the scared Donovan of her load. Her hands were shaky with shock and anxiety.

None of them, not even Anderson, wanted to look at Sherlock. He looked like a statue. Sherlock's back was to the crew, his long coat fell to his knees, his hands were laid upon the desk and his shoulders were hunched and crooked.

"Anderson," Sherlock snapped, his hand was held out.

Phillip didn't hesitate as he placed the evidence bag in the waiting hand and Sherlock carefully unsealed it. His back was still turned.

Greg had a towel pressed against his mouth and John slowly dripped some alcohol on the wound to clean it. The only movement Lestrade made was the tightening of his grip upon the chair.

John looked over his shoulder, he still didn't know about the detective's condition, "Sherlock? How's it going, how are you?"

Sherlock just held a hand up to silence him. No one moved a muscle as the consulting detective's eyes scanned the parchment. His back was still turned.

Donovan looked at Anderson and Lestrade in duress. She knew about Sherlock somehow dying but he looked like he had before, unhealthy but surely not dying. The idiot was probably concealing it not to worry John or degrade his reputation.

"Sherlock, you're dying," Sally took a step towards the ailing man, "the killer Gerald Price told us."

"Wait, w-what?" John looked up from Greg's shoulder.

The icy glare that Donovan received was the worst one she had ever seen. Sherlock turned to her, his body movements calm and swift but his blue eyes were enraged and callous. Donovan stepped back and avoided his gaze.

"Sherlock, what?" the army doctor quickly stood up and walked over to his friend, "w-what does she mean, what's she talking about?"

The consulting detective turned his body around, but no sign of the spreading toxin decomposing his body was evident. Sherlock handed John the empty paper cup that once held his tea.

"Hemlock."

John crushed cup in his hand and threw it across the room, "Damn it! Bloody hell, Sherlock! You don't even think to call me up and let me know?! I'm a doctor for Christ's sake! You knew, and you still walk around all good and nice while we are out there risking our lives for you to solve this damn thing and you don't even tell us you're dying of poison consumption!"

"Calm down, John," Sherlock raised his voice, "I didn't ask you to go out there, it was Lestrade who proposed it."

"Thank you for that, Holmes," Lestrade rolled his eyes with irritation, "but all jokes aside, you're going to a hospital and you're going now."

"What a fine idea, Gavin, let's just hop into a cab and go back home, shall we? You think we would if we could? The man has got the whole building in lock down and auxiliary power will close all doors, so you tell me how we'll get to a hospital, because I'm not the only one who needs medical attention here."

Sherlock looked at Lestrade's shoulder.

"Shut up, both of you," Anderson came forward, "I wanted to have a word with you about that, Sherlock. Auxillary power can't operate unless Detective Inspector Lestrade were to activate it himself in his office. So, why is it that he's out there getting chased by Price and you're in here fine and dandy helping the killer."

Sherlock laughed, "You think I'm aiding the murderer Gerald Price?"

Donovan's expression suddenly seemed guarded, "tell us the truth, Sherlock, did you activate auxiliary power in here so the killer could find me and Lestrade. so we would run for our lives while being shot at?"

"You imbeciles," Sherlock's tone was low and threatening, you're scared and that's what betrays you in these moments. No, I did not help the killer, no I did not access Greg's auxiliary power, but Price _can_ remember? He's a computer genius. This man could hack into the British government if he wanted to and you should feel lucky his skills haven't reached an international level yet," Sherlock began to advance upon the two officers, his talk form intimidating, "you accuse me of no emotions, yet it's what helps me the most in these situations to not sink to your level, this level of stupidity-"

Sherlock cut short and growled in pain. His entire right side just went numb and his whole abdomen was burning with white hot pain.

"Sherlock!" John scrambled over as Holmes kept his eyes shut tightly and sank down to the floor. One arm was draped listlessly to his side and the other was holding his chest, his back was supported against the wooden desk.

"I'm fine," his voice was strained, like a tight guitar string about to snap, "I'm fine, j-just hand me the parchment, please."

"Donovan, get that thing away from him," Lestrade ordered quickly, staggering over to Sherlock, "Anderson, from my cart get me some ice."

"There's none left, Donovan used it to wake him up earlier!"

Sherlock tried to say something, but his gasping interfered.

"Don't," John fussed, trying to take the heavy coat off the detective's shoulders, "don't try to speak."

"No, John, he might have something useful stored up in his Mind Palace!" Lestrade gave Watson an outraged look, "what is it, Holmes? Tell me what you need.

"S-salt."

"Salt!" Donovan cried with urgency, "yes, salt! Salt and water! That's a homemade vomit inducing remedy, it'll delay some of the effects of hemlock if we can get it out of his digestive tract."

"I have some next to the tea, but we can't put too much it'll kill him!"

"He's already dying!" Anderson furrowed his brows, "what else can we do!"

"Donovan," John ran over to the detective who was by Lestrade's refreshment cart, "he's 6'3'' and probably 55-60 kilograms, that means the salt ratio can't be too potent for him or it'll negatively react with the Hemlock already absorbed in his-"

"Hurry up!" Lestrade called as Sherlock slumped sideways on the carpet, his breathing quick and rapid.

Donovan held up the salt shaker that was on the cart and a glass full of water was in her other hand. She looked at Sherlock, then John, then the glass in her hand.

"Bloody hell!" she muttered as she screwed off the salt shaker cap and poured all of it in the glass. She bounded by Lestrade and Anderson, holding the homemade remedy in her hands and passing it to Anderson who gently gave it to Sherlock. Holmes took it with eager hands and tossed it back. Anderson made a disgusted face as the saline solution made him gag from just looking at it. John was right next to Sherlock and Donovan turned away with Lestrade.

Sherlock emptied the contents of his stomach, including the remaining Hemlock, in Greg's desk waste bin. His face was pale and clammy and his eyes were bloodshot but never dull.

"We all good then?" Anderson looked at Sherlock warily.

"Anderson, shut up," John's eyes were ablaze.

"Lestrade, I need to the parchment," Sherlock started at the detective inspector.

"No means no, Sherlock, you are in no condition to be doing anything like this. Don't think your out of the woods yet, because you're not."

"He's right, Holmes," John joined up with Greg, "there is still toxin inside your body and I don't know how long we could've delayed the reaction, but you are still at risk of death by poisonous consumption," John walked over to the windows and looked outside at a peaceful London but police cars and armored vehicles surrounded the perimeter of the Yard along with news teams, "right now we need to find a way out of this place. Anderson, how far until the next floor?"

"The main lobby is four floors down, that's got to be around 12-15 meters. But good idea, Watson, let's plunge to our deaths from the fourth story window and hope all goes well," the forensic officer scoffed.

"No," Lestrade nodded and spoke up, "maybe he's on to something, the fire escape is down the side of the East Wall, if we were to-"

"Are you all just idiots or are you trying to make me laugh?" Sherlock interrupted, "you lot are suggesting _climbing_ down the side of Scotland Yard?"

"He's right," Anderson piped up, "Sherlock won't live long enough to finish the climb. He'll probably fall halfway down."

Greg had to hold the smaller yet more determined John who was advancing towards the dark-haired man.

"Gabriel, even for you this is moronic," Sherlock spoke silently to Lestrade.

"It's Greg!"

"Let me go, Lestrade!" John growled his eyes like those of bloodhounds.

"Can't take the truth, Watson?" Anderson mocked, his lip curled up in anger, "your precious Sherlock can't take a beating?"

"No! No! No!" Sherlock closed his eyes in irritation, "we can't just go scaling across the building like we're some rock-climbers. We need to think this through."

"Boys, calm down," Lestrade still had Watson by the arm, "all ideas are welcome because we need to get out and get you to a hospital," he touched Sherlock with one finger to the chest.

"Don't _touch_ me."

"Always the child, Holmes," Anderson rolled his eyes,

John struggled against Lestrade while Sherlock spoke up, "Anderson, were you raised by a pack of wolves as a child? When you eat you growl, when you speak you bark, and you have the brain the size of a chestnut, so no one wants to hear it, _Phillip_!"

Above the clamor and the bickering of the men, Donovan stood in the corner of the room. She held the burned paper in her gloved hands and studied it over and over. Anderson said he had been trying to decode the message down in the lab, but it looked like gibberish to her:

* _ ^4 ~ / ' — )`a :: * ^

How was she supposed to decode pages of that? No wonder Sherlock had been stooped for days now. If she was dealing with something like that, she would drive herself insane trying to crack it. However much she disapproved of Holmes, Donovan did believe there was a method to his madness. Sometimes when dealing with a challenging puzzle in a case she would ask herself things Sherlock might ask himself.

 _Are there any objects around the room that suggest clues?_

 _Are the conditions of any personal items on the person(s) evident?_

 _Do any connections from past cases or articles you have encountered link to this case?_

 _Has the person had a history of lovers? Family? Enemies? Occupation?_

These were some of the questions she had learned to ask when training to become a detective, but now she took a Sherlocky outlook to the in order to correctly assess the situation.

Donovan sighed in defeat and shook her head. The message looked like those odd codes you see on a computer when you accidentally download a virus or something-

The detective stopped cold in her tracks and placed the evidence in front of her eyes once more.

It did look like it. Pages and pages of computer virus code.

Gerald Price was a computer guru and in her hands was a computer code that triggered computer bombs.

Her faced morphed into one of delight as she prepared to call out and tell the still arguing men what she had discovered. A hand covered her mouth. Her eyes widened in alarm and she felt a scream build in her throat but an arm crushed her neck. Donovan gagged and was roughly pulled through the large wooden doors out of Detective Inspector Lestrade's office.

A voice whispered in her ears, "Nice to meet you, Sally."

Her cry of alarm was muffled against the black gloved hand and the barrel of a gun was held directly to her temple. She could practically feel the heat of the bullet against the cool metal.

"One word and you die."


	7. Chapter 7

**Here we go, another chapter! This is one of the last ones, but I thank you for the new followers and the favorites for this story and I am super grateful!**

"Alright, alright," John eased up on Lestrade, "I'll stop, I'll stop, just let me go."

"You sure?"

"Yes, yes I'm fine."

Lestrade uncrumpled the fabric of John's jacket from his fist.

"Down boy, down," Anderson chuckled.

"Okay, you know what-" John lunged at the forensic officer once again, but Sherlock interfered.

"Enough!" he stood in between them both, his tall frame creating a wall. Lestrade felt his heart drop. Sherlock, poisoned, ill, tired, hungry, and frail still held a sense of urgency to the case that all of them technically had given up on, "we've got a bigger problem."

"What?"

Holmes nodded to the corner of the room, "Donovan is gone."

Anderson's eyes immediately flashed to the corner of the room where the woman once stood and his smug demeanor instantly dropped.

"Sally," he whispered in shock.

"All that was left," Sherlock held up the evidence bag still containing the coded paper, "was this. He came inside while we were arguing and took her."

"Oh my God," Lestrade shook his head and ran a hand down his face. His shoulder wound looked like it was hurting it at the moment.

"This is all your fault!" Anderson turned to look at Sherlock, his voice was like a snake's hiss.

"Anderson, now calm down-" John stepped forward.

Phillip Anderson reared his hand back and punched John Watson square in the jaw.

"John!" Sherlock yelled, and immediately winced. He staggered back and fell on the alcohol cart.

Lestrade didn't know who to go to, but he couldn't afford a physical fight right now between his two men. Donovan was already gone and this wasn't the time to start something up.

"Control yourselves, both of you!" Greg shoved Anderson back, "Donovan is gone and instead of fighting each other like a couple of bastards, we should be more focused on catching Price, getting Donovan, and getting Sherlock to a hospital."

John pulled himself to his feet, his eyes were stone cold and a bruise was already forming on his cheek. Anderson's eyes were like fire and he pointed them directly at Holmes, his face one of disgust.

Sherlock had to sit himself down, his body begin to flare up again. His features were pressed together in pain, his back was folded, and his long legs looked stiff. Holmes's chest felt like a hammer was pounding into his ribcage and he just wanted to go back to his flat and lie down on his couch.

But that wasn't the case.

Gerald Price had taken a hostage, one of the Yard that had affiliations with Anderson. As much as that sounded unsavory in his head, it wasn't time to stop yet.

"John, give me the evidence," he reached up weakly from his spot on the floor.

"Sherlock, stop it," Watson's face was etched with worry and his doctor mode kicked in, "I need you to lie down on your back, your heart will get the best airflow that way, then I need-"

"No," Sherlock shook his head, "Greg?"

Lestrade's face was torn but he looked at the carpet shaking his head.

"It's the only chance I have to save Sally Donovan, Detective Inspector."

"Oh, for Christ's sake!" Anderson ripped the bag from Lestrade's grip and tossed it to Sherlock, "you find her and you find her now."

Sherlock nodded as Anderson let the paper go.

"Donovan-ah," a beating headache pounded through his skull and his right leg was dead weight, "had found something, she figured a piece of the case out. Now, if she can do it, then so can I. Think like Donovan, think like Donovan," he whispered to himself quickly, "I'm looking at the code. I don't know what to do with the code. I think like Sherlock to decipher the code. I can't think like Sherlock. I am ready to give up. I compare it to something I can try to make sense with."

"This is getting us nowhere," Anderson turned his back.

"No, Phillip, wait," John stopped the forensic officer with his hand, "what does she like? What does she do in her free time?"

"This is outrageous-"

"Do what the man says, Anderson," Lestrade stepped up next to John.

The dark-haired man looked from his Detective Inspector to Holmes's sidekick Watson, to the dying detective, himself, on the floor. Anderson always thought of the ways Sherlock Holmes would fall, he liked to do it in his free time, but not like this. Not while Sherlock still needed to get Sally back.

His voice cracked, "She likes cats, and coming home after work to a movie and some takeout, she likes to chat online with some friends, but she never really could handle computers. Downloaded a couple viruses at times-"

Sherlock whispered something to himself, his eyes wide and alert.

"What?" John's heart rate quickened, "what is it?"

"It's a virus," he looked up and his breaths were short and haggard, "the virus triggered the bombs."

A burst of static roared over the intercom system. Muffled sounds and small grunt and yelps from a woman were all you could hear for a moment.

"Sherlock?" Price's voice amplified across the room, "you are not supposed to be alive."

"Annoying, isn't it?" Sherlock quipped.

"Where's Sally Donovan, Price?" Anderson snarled, Lestrade placed a hand on his arm to stop him. They were dealing with a mass murderer who had a hostage, now wasn't the time to make demands.

"I struck a chord there didn't I, Phillip Anderson?" the killer cleared his throat and the sound of him spitting on the floor echoed through the room, "why don't you say hi, Sally?"

"A-Anderson?"

"Sally," he whispered helplessly to himself.

"Enough, Price," John spoke now, "where do we meet to-"

"I want to talk to Sherlock!" Gerald growled over the speaker, microphone feedback made the four men cover their ears.

"Talk to me, Gerald," Sherlock coughed, "what do you need to say?"

"I want you to know that I did this for you."

Silence filled the room as all eyes looked to Sherlock for a reaction, "Oh, I'm flattered."

"You and I belong together, Sherlock. You will never truly know the reason for my actions and you will only yearn to figure out the answers. Not even your precious Mind Palace can concoct a reasonable explanation. You know my entire life cover to cover and yet mystery still drags on."

John shuddered. He had been involved in the case for five days now and he didn't want to think of dealing with this any longer.

"You're wrong, Price," Sherlock snorted with irritation, "because I don't want to solve your case anymore."

A moment of stunned silence.

"What?" came the calm voice of the murderer.

"You heard me correctly."

"I-I don't understand."

"Oh, I think you do," Sherlock tried to rise to his legs but slumped back down once the radical beating of his heart hitched.

"No, Holmes, this isn't right. You will solve my case, it's your passion to. You can never leave a case to go unsolved."

"There's a first for everything," Sherlock's voice was sinister.

Lestrade walked carefully to the detective, "Do you know what you're doing?"

Sherlock nodded once.

"Holmes! By God I will kill sergeant Donovan this instant if you oppose me!"  
"Damn it, Sherlock!" Anderson clutched his head.

"I think I'll survive," the consulting detective shrugged and winced.

They could hear Sally sob in the back.

"You have no idea how I did this! You have no idea why! You call yourself so clever, but in reality, you can't do a lick of detective work!"

"Oh really?" Sherlock scoffed calmly, "Gerald Price aged 53, 76 kilos, diagnosed with congestive heart failure genetically contracted from your father, Carl Price. Worked at Computer Imaging Co. as a graphic designer for advertisement. You were married to Deborah Price who died of "accidental overdose" after your first daughter Caroline died at the age of eight and your second child, an infant, died at 6 months. I know every lick, every detail about your life Price. Your bullies in high school, your girlfriends, your first jobs, your car crash in '87, your electrical bill fiasco, every move you made I was there, I know. You watched me too, you even knew how I liked to take my tea. You observed Watson and me from a distance, never interfering until you clearly send a message with the young girl draped so unceremoniously across our counter. I came here and you set up those bombs long ago, you waited me out until I crawled out of my flat to the one place I was destined to go. These codes," he waved the burned parchment in the air, "is an activation key. You used your technical talent to create an ultimate virus that would download into the browsers. But to activate it, you controlled the basic settings on the computer with a master drive. Settings such as 'save' and 'print'. Once the moment called for it, all at once every computer was activated by your skeleton drive to print the code, therefore triggering the explosives. Don't tell me that I have no idea how to solve a case because while you were out there ravaging woman and going on a killing spree I was the one here watching you, waiting for you. This exact moment conspired so we could talk to each other at this very second. I have done my part in this investigation, and I am through."

"You'll die before you get to a hospital!" Gerald laughed like a maniac.

"So be it," Sherlock scoffed, "I'll die knowing I outwitted you."

"No, you haven't!" the men heard Donovan shout over the intercom as Price spoke, "I have the barrel of my gun resting against Sally Donovan's forehead at this moment. Sherlock Holmes, it is up to you to save this woman," Price cut off to release a series of hacking coughs, "she will die because of your actions."

"Actually, she'll die from your actions," Sherlock retorted, "it was you who started this all and it's you who chose to act like a child and point the gun at the innocent woman. Don't turn this around at me, Price, just because you can't get a grip on the situation."

"I did what I had to do!"

"Lestrade, Anderson, help me!" Donovan shouted.

"Where are you going with this, Holmes!" Greg asked Sherlock.

"No, Sherlock, keep going," John urged.

"Sherlock, you might have figured out my bombs and the reason my wife and daughters died, but you'll never figure out my motives," Gerald laughed and continued to cough and wheeze.

"The police are coming, Gerald," Sherlock shrugged, "sooner or later you will be thrown into a cell, tortured 200 different ways, reminiscing on the ways you didn't avenge the death of your children and the quote on quote "accidental" suicide of your wife."

"Damn you, Holmes! It was a miscalculation of pills, she accidentally overdosed!"

"Oh, yes, of course, just like I accidentally am ignoring your plea, just like you accidentally placed those bombs or killed those women, just like you accidentally slipped up in your elaborate plan."

"Slipped up?" Price's voice was frantic now, "I didn't slip up! _I_ called _you_!"

"And I'm going to say 'goodnight' to you, Gerald. I have a good cup of Earl Grey at home that's waiting for me."

"W-what? You can't just say 'goodnight'!" the killer growled, "I still have Sally Donovan with me!"

"And what will you do to her?"

"I'll blow her brains out."

"And what will you do since I don't care."

"Oh, of course, you care, Holmes," Price laughed cynically, "you always care."

"Why should I? Anderson and Donovan have only ever questioned me, only ever wanted to see me locked away. Why should I care for her now?"

"Holmes!" Anderson snarled, his leap was stopped by John who held him back.

"You deny it now, but you-you need me, right Sherlock?" Gerald had a hint of mania in his tone.

"No, in fact, I think you need me."

"THAT DOES IT!" the killer screamed, the safety being clicked off was evident, "say goodbye to Sergeant Sally Donovan."

"I can't listen," Anderson cried, leaning into John who looked at Sherlock with horror in his eyes.

Sherlock just laughed. He laughed loudly, inconspicuously, a laugh meant to attract attention but one that faded into a cough because of the hemlock.

There was no shot.

Anderson raised his head slightly from Watson's shoulder.

"You laughed, why? Why did you laugh?" Price became oddly and utterly calm.

"Oh, so now your interested? I thought Donovan was supposed to die first."

"S-shut up, Holmes," her scared voice sounded through the speaker.

"Everyone be quiet, why did you laugh, Sherlock?"

"You remind me a lot of someone, that's why," Sherlock tilted his head back and hit his skull against the cart. His fingernails dug so deep into his palm from pain that blood dripped down his knuckles.

"Who?"  
"A good, old friend of mine who is now dead. Do you understand that? Dead. He tried so hard to get the better of me, thought he did too, but I was always 6 paces ahead of him, a counter-counter move for his every attack. I had plans by the list and he could hardly think of one little riddle at a time to stop me. He only had his gun to threaten me. I find similarity between you two, you both doubt that I will be the end of you and wave your weapons pointlessly through the sky to intimidate me, to daunt me."

"I've killed people, Sherlock," Gerald's former shakiness returned to his voice, "I will kill more. I enjoy it."

"No, you don't!" Sherlock's tone was strained, "you convince yourself that are some high and mighty man with power and authority. I am prepared to rip down your walls, your ethics, your morals bit by bit, are you?"

"Try me."

"Your insecurity towards your stature made you feel lucky that you could score a woman like Deborah, but once your first child died and your second did too, you didn't feel like you could accommodate anything for her anymore. How could you keep a woman like that with a man like you? She threw the child in the dumpster in a fit of rage and insanity and you blamed it on yourself. You claimed that it was your lack of fulfillment that drove to these misfortunes in your life. I think that's exactly the reason why your life turned out so horribly, that tragedy after tragedy continued to reign through your existence and you attempted to counter that by inflicting the same emotions to other people. You killed women to make a statement, not to me, but to the world. You had the power to bring misery to other people and the only reason you wanted me involved was so I could know it too. So, you see, Gerald, you challenged me to figure out the reasoning behind your actions and it didn't even take me a moment to piece it all together."

"B-but, how could-that's not-"

"Possible?" Sherlock finished the sentence for him.

"How did you?" Price's voice sounded like his throat was becoming constricted.

"I'm clever, Price," Holmes's voice was like poison, "remember that when you're rotting in your cell. The police are coming in any moment, Gerald, you will not have succeeded in your mission to outsmart me and I will go home and relish in the moments I can share with my loved ones. Who do you have?"

There was a series of haggard coughs and a choking noise.

"Sally?" Anderson ran around the room, "Sally?!"

"Phillip! I-I don't know what's happening!"  
The horrible gagging and choking continued to blare over the intercom and Lestrade held his pistol in his hand ready to go.

"What is that, Sherlock?" Greg asked, his brows were knitted together in utter concentration.

"Did you do it?" John came up and silently spoke to Sherlock.

"I did it," the detective smiled weakly.

"What? What did he do?"  
"Gerald Price is going into cardiac arrest."

Lestrade let John's words sink in for a moment, his mouth was open in slight disbelief and awe.

"Oh my God," Greg blinked and then smiled wide and huge, "you bastard! Haha! You bloody did it! You used his congestive heart failure as an attack!"

"What do I do?!" Sally cried over the speaker. She held her gun in her hand and pointed it at the red-faced and dying Gerald Price down on the floor, "we can't leave him like this!"

"Why not?" John growled, "he deserves it."

"John," Sherlock whispered, "we don't do that."

"Oh, fine!" Watson threw his hands in the air, "Donovan, leave him for a minute."

"What?!"

"Just do it!"

Over the intercom, they heard the increasingly rapid and struggled breathing of Gerald Price.

"Watson!" Lestrade yelled at the war doctor, "what the hell are you doing?!"  
"Leave it!"

The breaths started becoming more scarce and all at once they stopped.

"He's not breathing!" Sally screamed.

"Donovan, pump his heart. Place your hands over one another on top of his chest and perform slow and rhythmic pumps to get his blood flowing once again."

"Why did you wait?" Sherlock cocked his head to the side.

"Had to wait for him to pass out," John panted and smiled, "can't have him running around again once his heart has regulated."

"Sergeant Donovan, where are you?" Lestrade opened his office doors and prepared to go out.

"Second Floor, Interrogation Room #3."

The Detective Inspector barged out of the room and in the direction of the stairs.

Anderson ran to Lestrade's desk and picked up the phone receiver from its placeholder. He punched in a number and held the phone impatiently to his ear.

"Hello!" Anderson exclaimed with relief, "This is Phillip Anderson with Scotland Yard. Please, we need help….well, I couldn't call earlier, the phone lines were monitored….yes, I'm sure, you idiot! We have injured men here…..one debris wound to the shoulder…one man in cardiac arrest, regulated….and another," he looked Holmes up and down, "with a lot…we need three gurneys here, stat and a complete sweep through every room in this entire building…go, now!"

Anderson punched the receiver back down in its place.

John ran over to Sherlock. The consulting detective hadn't moved from his spot on the floor since he talked to Price. He had to put on quite the show in front of the killer to not take away from the effect his words would cause. He knew that anxiety was a manipulative cause he could use to trigger a heart attack. Already, Price's blood pressure was high through the chase in the building and once he had been shot, his central nervous system was already compromised. It just took the right combination of words to get the gears turning and that was one thing Sherlock excelled in doing: talking.

Now he was empty. The hemlock ravaged through his body and ripped his muscles apart. Sherlock's legs had had gone numb 25 minutes ago, his arms flared with burning pain, his chest was being crushed by the small amounts of air that were flooding his lungs. Every breath was like a kick to the abdomen, the gulps of air like fire in his throat. His head was pounding, his stomach nauseous, he felt lightheaded.

"Sherlock," John laughed nervously, "I need you to hang on for me, alright? The medics will be up here any second. Just hold on, Sherlock, hold on, please."

Holmes felt his body slide to the floor.

"John?"

The yellow jackets of the paramedics carrying a gurney were seen through the doors.

"Yeah?"

His vision blurred.

"Make sure my violin is tuned for when I get back."

Sherlock's eyes rolled back in his head and he was out.

"SHERLOCK!"

 **Look out for the final chapter of "The Computer Criminal" soon!**


	8. Chapter 8

**Hey, everyone! So I said this was the last chapter but the file was too big to upload so I'm going to make them two little chapters! So here is The Finale Part 1 and the next one will be posted later today! Enjoy!**

Lestrade entered the lobby of the hospital Sherlock was being kept in. After the incident with Gerald Price at Scotland Yard two days ago, everything had been a blur. He ran up to grab Donovan who was still artificially pumping the serial killer's heart. Her face was white and a tear slid down her cheek. The man that they were so desperate to stop for the last week was now dying beneath her and it was her duty to save him. What a world they lived in. Greg had the barrel of his gun aimed at Price just in case he suddenly woke up and did something funny. The bullet wound in the back of his shoulder from his gun was hastily covered with stained paper towels.

"Donovan," Lestrade panted, his own arm hurt him, "how are you?"

"Considering that I'm now reviving someone I want dead, I'm doing okay," her voice was shaky with shock and despair, "how long before the medics come up here?"

"Anderson called, they should be here any minute, just keep doing what you're doing."

"Why, Lestrade, why should I? This man was hurt families, murdered women, and terrorized us all. Why does he deserve my help?" Despite her complaints, she continued to press his chest up and down rhythmically.

"No talk like that, Sergeant, you know why."

"Remind me."

"We are Scotland Yard, it's our duty to protect people regardless of their actions. This man will face his punishment in court when the time comes. Until then, you just keep doing what Watson told you."

Her expression was angry but she obeyed her superior.

Within minutes, the yellow-jacketed paramedics came barging into Interrogation Room #3. Donovan let her hands rest with a relieved sigh and fell back in a chair hastily. Her legs shook and her body felt tired. All she wanted to do was go home and take a week off from work.

"Sir," one of the paramedics gestured to Lestrade cautiously, "lower your weapon, please."

Greg whipped out his Detective Inspector identification and emptied the bullets from his gun before placing it down on the table. The paramedic's shoulders relaxed as Lestrade flopped down in a chair, exhaustedly. Through their entire ordeal, Lestrade kept his shoulder pain at bay as best as he could, but now the full force of the impact hit him. He let the two paramedics gently ease him onto a gurney, but he chose to sat upright. He would not have the image of Scotland Yard be tarnished as they exited the building to a sea of news reporters and cameras. One of the medics gently unwrapped the bandage that Donovan quickly applied last and his face was stern, full of concentration. They rolled out of the Interrogation Room as more medics filed in, pushing another gurney followed by a few armed officers. They hoisted the large Gerald Price onto the gurney and placed an oxygen mask over his face. One of the officers placed a metal handcuff around his wrist and attached it to the railing of the gurney. Lestrade breathed a sigh of relief. Donovan was being attended to by another neon-jacketed man who she continuously tried to wave off. The medics pushing his gurney veered to the side as Price zoomed past them, the men running to an ambulance. One of the paramedics was seated atop him on the gurney, pumping his heart like Sally did earlier.

They all watched the criminal go.

The medical men were very cordial, making conversation with Lestrade so they could keep him alert. Now that Donovan was safe, his mind went directly to Sherlock. Was he okay? Did the medics reach him? Was he going to a hospital now?

The two dark-haired paramedics spoke quickly and eagerly to one another, "I heard that Jerry is helping Sherlock Holmes!"

"That lucky bastard! What I wouldn't give to see that guy in person!"

"Hey, fellas," the Detective Inspector spoke up to the two young men who were wheeling his gurney into the large elevator car, "when you two are done yammering, I want to know if there is any news on Sherlock and his condition?"

"I'm sorry, sir," the one closest to him flushed, "our best men our working on him, right now. Will said he saw them putting him on a gurney."

"Sherlock? On a gurney? Ha! Like that'll ever happen," Lestrade laughed.

"Sir," Will's face darkened, "Mr. Holmes is in a very critical condition, he was unconscious when medical attention reached him."

"What?" Greg's eyes widened and his head swum, "is he alright?"

"We'll alert you on his condition as soon as we get the word," the other paramedic prepared to roll the cart out of the elevator. Lestrade's stomach turned. He knew what those words meant, and they were never good.

The front doors to the Yard were the only suitable entrance for the gurney to fit through, but that meant police, news anchors, cameras, and Yard officials lining up at the steps to get a word out of Lestrade. Off-duty officers came rushing over and created a police perimeter where three ambulances and a fire engine waited.

"Get ready, boys," Lestrade whispered gruffly to the medic pair as they slid the gurney through the entrance and exited the seized building. Teams rushed in and Greg turned away as Emergency medics wheeled out bodies with covers over them.

Shouts, yells, cameras, demands, and light all flooded Lestrade at once as he exited the lobby into open air. He saw Scotland Yard chiefs coming up to him asking for a report or statements, there notepads were held out and ready. He saw officers come and try to hold back a mob of people and spectators that all shouted at him. Microphones were thrust into his face and pampered, manicured men and women anchors asked his questions.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade, what can you say of the circumstance?"  
"How will Scotland Yard recover?"

"Is it true that explosive devices throughout the offices caused the multitudes of deaths?"

Struggling officers carrying shields wrestled the crowd back and the two medics, Will and Bram, yelled at the advancing mob.

"Get back! Get back!"

"This man needs medical attention!"

Lestrade kept his head bowed.

A little farther away, Philip Anderson had a waiting posse of his own as more than fifteen microphones and camera lenses were pointed at him in and effort to display his words across national television. By now Greg was certain that the whole country-whole world, in fact-was aware of the attack on Scotland Yard.

Lestrade shook his head in dismay as the crowd of people reluctantly listened, upset with the fact that the Detective Inspector's health was interfering with their interviews.

Chief Stoker grabbed Lestrade's uninjured arm (thankfully) and pulled him down, "Tomorrow, my office, come for debriefing. We can't let our name go on like this."

Frustration boiled inside Greg. He just barely emerged from a life or death situation and already everyone's first priority was the attention this incident could cause to the Yard's good name.

"Understood, sir," Lestrade couldn't help but keep some of the bitterness in his response.

They continued to try and wheel the Detective Inspector to the ambulance, but shouts and the clamor of the mob shifted. Surrounded by a horde of yellow jackets and one John Watson, a motionless Sherlock Holmes was rapidly being wheeled out of the Yard entrance next to Lestrade.

"Sherlock!" Greg yelled trying to turn around to see if he was okay but his shoulder flared up in pain from the effort.

Sherlock Holmes was lying down on the gurney, his long arms pulled to his side, his tall form still on the cart. His eyes were closed and his face was as white as a ghost. The purple rings around his eyes were deeper in color and his entire body looked ashen. Five days he had worked on this demanding case. No food, little water, no sleep, and poison left his body little to run on and he had paramedics screaming above him, shouting orders to one another. Sherlock's long black coat clung to his skeletal form and an oxygen mask was placed over his nose and mouth as well. One man opened one of his crystal blue eyes and shone a light through it.

"Pupil response is normal."

"O2 stats low, we need another tank here!"

"Pump his heart, we can't have him going into cardiac arrest!"

"I'm making a central line, push one of epipen!"

"Call the hospital, we need a stomach pump right away and get a room ready in ICU."

John on the other hand hovered over Sherlock and behind the team of medics.

"Be gentle! Careful! Look, he's my best friend, please be careful!"

"Sir, sir," an officer held John back, "we need you to stay behind here so the team gets through-"

"Get your bloody hands off of me!" Watson resisted against the armed officer who was barreled down by John. The war veteran went running after the gurney.

Will and Bram took this opportunity to wheel Lestrade's gurney towards the waiting ambulance where two more paramedics were ready to pull in the cart. The receding crowd bombarded Sherlock's medics as media cameras were pointed down at the ailing and dying detective.

"Damn it, he's crashing!" one of the medics yelled.

John saw that there was no way Sherlock would be able to be put into the ambulance and checked into a hospital with a tsunami of people crowding their path. The driver of the ambulance began to slowly back up to close the distance between the gurney and the van, but had to go slow to not run down any civilians. The officers had brought out the shields as Sherlock's celebrity status betrayed him in the most crucial of moments.

Watson pulled out his pistol from his belt and raised it to the sky, firing three blank shots.

People screamed and ducked as their sudden common sense got the better of them. The crowd thinned as many of the pedestrian spectators cleared out of the area, leaving only dedicated news anchors hustled and shoved by the fleeing mass of people.

"GO! GO! GO!" shouted one of the officers as the police team began to push against the disorganized crowd. The medic sitting atop Sherlock, pumping his heart rapidly, gave John a grateful look as four yellow jackets pushed the gurney forward where two more paramedics pulled the gurney inside the ambulance. John just managed to lunge and reach the stair of the gurney in time as a medic pulled him in and the doors closed.

Persistent news anchors clapped against the windows and angled themselves for their camera crews to get a shot of the crashing detective inside the medical vehicle. Five men huddled over Holme's decimated body as his heart rapidly began to decrease its rate.

One of the medics grabbed a red kit that had a white heart logo on the cover. He unzipped it quickly and pulled out two metal plates hooked up to a wire.

"Expose the chest," he ordered as one man threw the coat aside and ripped the buttons off Sherlock's black shirt. His pale and bare chest looked exposed and extremely pale as the oxygen mask on Sherlock's face covered most of the nauseating color of his features.

"300 jewels! One! Two! Three!" the man holding the defibrillator rubbed both electric conducting plates together, a whirring noise made John's heart tear, "CLEAR!"  
Sherlock's body jumped in the air as the electrical current passed through his body. His eyelids flickered.

"Charge again, 375 jewels! One! Two! Three! Clear!"

Sherlock gasped awake, his blue, bloodshot eyes rapidly scanning the vehicle around him as yellow jacketed men swam in and out of his vision.

"Heart stabilizing," a medic's words barely reached the detective's ears, "Sir? Mr. Holmes, sir? Can you hear me?"

John's heart stopped for a tantalizing moment. He thought they would have to use the defibrillator on him for a minute.

Sherlock reached up and pulled the oxygen mask off his mouth, "Where's John?"

"Sherlock, I'm right here," Watson breathed a sigh of relief as Holmes still seemed alert, "what is it? What do you need?"

"Tell Anderson not to brag about the case until after I'm released," Sherlock's voice was a hoarse whisper that died out.

"He's out again, quick, get the defibrillator charging!"

John sat back and held his head in his hands as the repulsive electrical whiz of the machine reached his ears.

"One! Two! Three! Clear!"

Three hours later, John was transferred to a private waiting room in a selective section in the ICU to avoid the clamor of the paparazzi yearning to get a shot of Sherlock Holmes finally knocked down a notch. They didn't know the full story yet, but John obeyed Sherlock's request and called a certain Phillip Anderson to not reveal the climactic situation that occurred in Scotland Yard. Anderson, although reluctant, did have some heart and announced to awaiting newscasters that Sherlock Holmes has requested to explain the events once he recovered.

Sherlock crashed two times after that. They reached the hospital in 8 minutes as black vans and news cars followed them to the hospital. Fortunately, the driver called the awaiting medical team at the hospital about their tails and security teams created road blocks, allowing only the ambulance to pass. The paramedics unloaded Sherlock at rapid speed as they wheeled him inside where a team of doctors relieved the medics and shot him to his appointed stomach pumping.

John was guided by an intern to the private waiting room where he was offered coffee and some refreshments. In all that time, Watson felt like he was on autopilot as he barely registered the bombardment of noise and people. He went to the restroom quickly after that and leaned over the sink, rinsing his face. He sat down and Greg Lestrade was waiting there as well. He explained that he had quickly been released to accommodate to the other injuries. Gerald Price was being kept in a guarded room under a chemically induced coma until he was healthy enough be woken up and contact a lawyer. The Detective Inspector saw to it that Sally Donovan and Phillip Anderson were safely home with acute surveillance on both of them. His bandage was tight and clean and if it hadn't been for Donovan's skill he would've been dead.

"Mrs. Hudson called," John shook his head, "worried sick. I said Sherlock was still getting his stomach pumped."

"Oh, he's going to be in sorts when he wakes up," Lestrade hooted, "imagine that."

"Yeah, well, there are more important things to worry about."

"Why don't you go home and rest, John, I'll stay here and call you if anything changes," even as Lestrade proposed it, he knew the answer would be 'no'.

And he was right, "I can't, Greg."

"Then grab some sleep here, the nurse will be back soon."

John at least consented to that and he leaned his head back. Sleep came sooner than he thought.

A black Mercedes with a small British flag proudly flying on the hood pulled up on the red "NO PARKING" zone of the hospital entrance. Mycroft Holmes placed one foot out of the lavish vehicle and his cane followed. He gave a gruff nod to the driver to stay parked as he straightened his suit and glided through the sliding glass doors. He looked around, unfamiliar with the civilian environment around him. There was a gift shop overwhelming with stuffed bears and melancholy flowers, a food court that secreted odors of fried meat, and the sickly tang to the air made Mycroft cringe. He finally saw the reception desk and walked over to it, his cane tapping rhythmically on the ground. Eyes followed him from the forlorn families sitting in the waiting room chairs, the smell of hand sanitizer and latex was enough to make one gag.

"Visitor for Mr. Sherlock Holmes," Mycroft asked elegantly.

The receptionist had seen hordes of magazine photographers, news anchors, and fans come sauntering up to her desk asking for his room number, offering bribes, and giving eager looks.

Her heart went out to the injured detective. She knew that he had a sometimes unsavory attitude, a distaste towards everything, and a stubborn personality but no man should be denied of his privacy, especially after the ordeal at Scotland Yard.

"I'm sorry, sir, family only."

"I am family," Mycroft had a malignant twinkle in his eye, "Mycroft Holmes," he held up his identification to the woman.

She gaped at him, eyes wide. Sherlock's name was popular amongst the nation but never had she heard a lick about a Mycroft Holmes.

"I-I'm sorry, sir, I'll get you a pass right away."

Mycroft turned his head and rolled his eyes as the receptionist hastily got a tag ready with the number 372 in green marker.

"Mr. Holme's room number," she gestured to the green ink.

Mycroft dipped his head in gratitude and elegantly walked to the elevator. He pressed the button for the 3rd floor and walked out as the elevator doors slid open. Mycroft was led into a private waiting room by a petite nurse, her eyes looked him and his grey suit up and down.

He walked through hallways echoing with coughs and pitiful groans. How he yearned to be back at the office right now. Room 372 was visible in dim light and he opened the door, stepped inside, and closed it on his way in.

His brother lay flat on the hospital bed. IV lines tangled themselves across the room pumping the much needed nutrients into Sherlock's body. A morphine drip caught his eye and he slyly wondered that was the reason Sherlock was so blissfully sleeping.

"Mycroft, do not mess with my morphine," a tired but determined voice reached his ears.

"Wouldn't dream of it, Sherlock," Mycroft seated himself down on the small chair.

The two blue eyes of his younger brother opened and he was greeted with an exhausted face. Sherlock looked pale and sickly, the stomach pump probably not the most ideal form of recuperation as the doctors worked on still getting the hemlock out of his system.

"How long have you been up?" Mycroft asked.

"It's touch and go," Sherlock shrugged, "the first was in the middle of the night when a nurse was changing my IV bags."

"You seem more pleasant, Sherlock, that stomach pump changed you."

Sherlock instantly grew white at the mention of his ordeal, "I'll never recover from that."

"What did the doctors say?"

"I will have to stay for a couple more days."  
"But we all know that's not going to happen."

Sherlock shrugged, he knew his brother was aware of his hate for distractions. Already he was planning his escape routes.

"You're quite the celebrity, Sherlock, people lined up out the door."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and winced, "I don't know how I'll be able to leave with a mob of cameras blocking my path."

"Well, once you settle in at home again I have another case I need you to look at."

The heart monitor spiked.

Mycroft stood up from his chair and started to make his way to the door.

"Take care of yourself, Sherlock."

"Mycroft," his brother dipped his head in farewell.

The older Holmes walked out of the hospital room. He recalled specific hallways he entered from and began to navigate his way back to the main lobby. He entered the private waiting room lacking the familiar commotion of cameras and paparazzi. As Mycroft ignored the blue waiting room chairs, a peculiar sight caught his eyes. He stopped and turned around. John Watson was sleeping in a chair, his head back, eyes closed, and silver hair in disarray. Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade was sprawled across two chairs. His legs resting on one, his head on another, his jacket as a makeshift pillow. The bandage around his shoulder seemed a couple hours old. Mycroft looked around, but no nurses seemed present at the moment.

He reached out with his cane and poked the Detective Inspector's chest with it. He snorted once and just shifted his head.

Mycroft did the same with John who abruptly jumped awake, his eyes bleary with sleep. The sudden movement woke up DI Lestrade who looked around wildly and then grabbed his neck in discomfort.

"Bloody hell," he murmured.

"Mycroft?" John said, surprised.

Greg immediately straightened himself up and popped a mint in his mouth. He held his hand out to Mycroft Holmes, "Good to see you again, Mr. Holmes."

"Hmm, quite." Mycroft's smile looked forced.

"Have you come to see Sherlock?" John's face was genuine.

"Yes, I have, the nurses informed me he will be doing just fine," Mycroft's smile hid his lie, "why don't you go and see him."

John practically sprinted to the nurse's desk asking what room Sherlock was being held in and if it was okay to see him now. Greg followed after dipping his head in farewell to Mycroft Holmes. He placed his cane simply in front of him and strutted to the elevator doors.

Lestrade felt himself run after John who was clearing hallways like a track star. He almost toppled over multiple nurse carts holding bandages and face masks, swerved around wheelchairs, and slammed his injured shoulder straight into a man.

His arm swelled up in pain and he exclaimed in outrage, "Watch where you're going, huh?"

A tall man with gelled back curly hair, clad in a doctor's coat, and a patient clipboard in his hands stared back at him passively, "Sorry, sir."

The doctor turned his back, his long legs wearing dark blue scrubs like the nurses.

"Hey, doctor!" Greg called, he turned his head to see John already turning the corner.

"Yes?" the guarded doctor only slightly turned his head in acknowledgement.

"Do you know where room 372 is?" Lestrade, with a curious glance, asked the man he had barreled into.

"Sorry, Detective Inspector, I don't know, one of your nurses would be glad to help."

"Hey, how'd you know I was a Detective Inspector?" Greg's eyes narrowed skeptically.

One long finger pointed up at the TV monitor in the corner of the room as the dark-haired doctor's back faced him, "Your famous."

"Oh," Greg's face reddened, "well, thanks for your help."

Lestrade turned to leave when the deep baritone voice of the doctor addressed him once more, "Say, isn't the detective Sherlock Holmes being kept on this floor? I've had so many surgeries I've been too busy to be sure, but wasn't he with you the night of the attack?"

"Yes, he was," the detective inspector smiled, Sherlock would always be a celebrity, even to these kind doctors, "if it weren't for him I wouldn't be standing here right now."

"Wasn't," the white coat of the tall man still faced him.

"What?"

"It's not 'weren't', it's 'wasn't". You meant to say if it wasn't for him you wouldn't be standing there right now."

Lestrade turned around to the direction John had ran off to, "Yes, I suppose I was-" he turned back around to see no man standing in front of him, no tall doctor with the shadowy face. He turned his head from side to side but failed to see any trace of the man. All he saw was a pair of elevator doors sliding closed and blue eyes flashing through the crack.

The Detective Inspector, known for his sharp intuition and acute observations, turned tail and ran after John Watson.


	9. Chapter 9

**Final chapter for real, here we go! Thanks for sticking with this thing, it was super fun to write and I enjoyed your positive feedback even more! Don't be afraid to leave a review and if you have any suggestions for other stories or characters PM me and we can talk;) Enjoy!**

"John?" Lestrade panted and ran into the room 372 where the halted form of Watson stopped his as well, "how is he?"

"He's gone."

'What?"

John stepped aside to reveal an empty hospital bed with tangled white sheets and a hospital gown with nobody in it.

"Oh, Holmes," Greg rolled his eyes. Typical Sherlock, they should've known, "where could he be?"

"The flat most likely," John pulled out his mobile and was dialing a number. Greg eyed a can of men's hair gel warily. Damn it. If Sherlock wasn't the most skilled and prized detective in the world, the Detective Inspector would've killed him.

"Your friend should've been an actor," Lestrade grumbled to Watson.

"What?" John had the phone to his ear.

"Nothing," he mumbled, "I'll call the boys, let's get to the flat."

He pulled his mobile from his jacket pocket and sent a quick text:

 **PICK UP FROM HOSPITAL TWO TO 221B BAKER STREET ASAP**

"Come on," Lestrade whipped around and stepped out of the empty hospital room. The mysterious doctor/Sherlock's sly demeanor and Mycroft's smug grin echoed through his mind on the way out.

Sherlock quickly slipped his flat ket into the keyhole to get inside. He quickly fished the key from his long black coat that was kept in a plastic bag in his hospital room. Once Mycroft left, Sherlock undid his IV and stuck the needle through the cap of a water bottle, allowing fluids to drip into the bottle. He also undid his morphine drip with a heavy heart., but his escape would require a clear mind. Once his doctor, Dr. Keller, had entered room 372 with a wide grin, Sherlock "accidentally" spilled juice on the dark blue scrubs. The man didn't dare look annoyed in front of the famous detective and flashed his brilliant white smile.

"No problem, Mr. Holmes," Dr. Keller responded to Sherlock's "sincere" apology, "I'm just glad you're getting better."

He stepped out of the room quickly after, his back to Sherlock who swung his legs over the side of the bed a little unsteadily. He quickly regained his footing and pulled on a face mask from a box by the door. Sherlock saw a stray wheelchair in the middle of the hall carrying an old man which he hopefully thought was sleeping. With his white hospital issued socks, pale blue gown, and face mask, the clever detective immediately pulled up behind the handlebars and began to push the wheelchair down the hall. He followed Dr. Keller who veered to the left and entered a room a little farther down. Sherlock nonchalantly leaned back against the wall, his old man decoy and face mask not attracting any attention to him yet. The hall was empty and a few nurses (more like wardens) milled about the receptionist's desk. After a few minutes, Dr. Keller emerged from the room wearing a fresh pair of scrubs and turned the corner. Once Keller was gone to visit other patients, Sherlock quickly wheeled his senior citizen over to the door, parking him right in front to block entry. Holmes stepped inside and saw a closet filled with bandages and empty syringes. There was a metal bin in the corner and inside was Dr. Keller's soiled white doctor jacket and navy scrubs. The juice stains were still wet but it would do. He quickly shrugged the hospital gown off his thin form and pulled the scrubs over his curly air and long legs. He grabbed a coat from the rack with the monogramed name of Dr. Keller on the front. He quickly emerged from the supply closet and retook his position behind the old man's wheelchair. He snorted once and turned his head. Sherlock quickly rolled up to the nurse's station.

"Hello, Valerie," he quickly glanced at her name tag, "can I have my next patient's chart, please?" His voice was like honey and his eyes wide and innocent.

"Who are you?" she eyed his warily, "you're not Dr. Keller," she looked at his coat.

"Great observation," he smiled sarcastically, "I'm his intern, you've probably seen me around," he emphasized his act by shuffling from foot to foot nervously.

"Oh, I would've remembered," she raised on eyebrow and looked him up and down hungrily.

Sherlock cleared his throat and leaned on the desk awkwardly, "Look, Val, I'm going through the ringer right now. I accidentally gave Dr. Keller the wrong patient workup and I thought I'd come to someone skilled to get it right."

The compliment worked and he winked at her, "Well, I'd say you've come to the right person," she blushed from behind her long eyelashes, "Here," she wheeled around and grabbed a folder from the rack. Holmes had his hand out ready to take it, but Valerie still held it a little farther from his reach, "why do you have a face mask on?"

"Patient with pneumonia, Floor 2."

"What's your name?"

"Dr. Watson, Greg Watson."

"Hmm, you don't look like a Greg Watson, but Watson like John Watson from the telly?"

"Never really liked him much," Sherlock smiled.

"Why haven't I ever seen you around here before?"

"I usually work in the Neurology Department, but I accidentally gave the surgeon a cleaver instead of a scalpel."

Valerie narrowed her eyes to see if he was joking or not, she laughed anyway, "If you slip up so much, why aren't you fired?"

"Do you want me to be fired?"

"No."

"It's because the staff here is really great," he winked at her once more.

"Hmm," she handed him the folder finally. Sherlock turned to walk away.

"Why are you wearing Dr. Keller's coat?"

"Another patient spilled juice on mine," he held up the edges of the scrubs to reveal the wet stains.

"You just have the worst luck in the world, don't you?"

"Not really, considering I still work here," Sherlock was loving this little show.

"Well, if you do want to get lucky tonight," her eyes sparked at him. "I get off at 6, if you ask me to dinner than you won't need to wear your dirty doctor's coat, or anything at all for that matter."

"Oh," Sherlock tried not to look too taken aback. If there was one thing he never would understand it was women, "Let me just go and give this to Dr. Keller and hurry on back, shall I?"

"I'll be waiting," she smiled eagerly.

Sherlock tightened his grip on the manila folder in his hand and left the senior in the wheelchair by the nurse's station. Someone would find him.

After his encounter with Valerie the Nurse, everything was fine. He gave Lestrade a run for his money, along with Valerie, and he was surely going to hear it from the detective inspector when his puny brain pieced it together. He gave it a week at most. Gosh, Gavin was so slow, or was it Gregory? Whatever. He stepped inside the elevator and into the waiting black car Mycroft provided him.

"221B Baker Street," Sherlock said. The driver hit the gas and their van passed by the waiting crowd of news reporters and cameras.

Sherlock pulled up next to the flat and pushed the door open. His scrubbed feet hit the pavement and he opened the door anxiously. It closed behind him and he rested against the wood victoriously. He was shocked at how things changed over the course of 24 hours. He heard pots and pans being placed down in flat 221A where Mrs. Hudson the Landlady lived.

"Hello? Who's there?"

She stopped dead in her tracks.

"Sherlock?" her voice was barely a whisper.

"Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock removed his face mask and bounded up the stairs two at a time.

"Wait," she looked after him in awe. It was like he was a god walking amongst mortals, "Aren't you supposed to be in the hospital?"

"Tea would be splendid, thank you," his deep voice echoed down the stairs. She ran into flat 221A and placed a pot to boil.

John would be coming any minute now along with the dumfounded Lestrade most likely. He smiled as he shed himself of Dr. Keller's coat, scrubs, and face mask. Right now he needed tea, shower, violin, experiment, cigarettes, and food, not necessarily in that order. The most he could do now was take a bath before his best friend came and yelled at him for being "reckless and irresponsible". Even for himself, this was a new record. With his curly hair wet and dripping from the bath, Sherlock exited the bathroom and into his own bedroom. The green bedcovers were just as he had left them a week ago, the periodic table hung on his wall was a comforting sight. He changed into a light blue button down, dark grey slacks, and blue oxfords. He rubbed two hands through his hair to dry and placed his silk blue robe around his shoulders.

Mrs. Hudson hadn't brought his tea which made him slightly cross considering everything he had done this week. She was probably grocery shopping for the two men anyway. John hadn't tuned the violin either and it seemed only Phillip Anderson, the man who excelled at annoying, was the one who answered his request on restraining himself from telling the public the events that occurred at Scotland Yard the day before. He gave the camera crews outside the hospital 3 hours at least before they realized he was no longer there and they'd come running to his flat.

He picked up his violin that was resting on the desk where John's macbook laptop lay. The blog hadn't been updated in a week and he was absolutely positive John would be typing away tonight. Sherlock placed the sleek wood of the violin under his chin and began to pluck the strings one by one with his finger, tuning it by ear. Once he was satisfied with the sound, Holmes glided the bow's strings across the chords of the instrument and a rhythmic pattern emerged from the violin. A symphony curled through the air as elegant notes flowed from his hands into the living room of the flat.

A sharp pain in his chest made his hand jerk and a sharp, unpleasant note interrupt his melody.

Sherlock waited for a moment, holding his chest as his brow furrowed. It stopped. He shrugged and began to play again, his nimble fingers jumping across the strings to elicit beautiful sound.

His chest flared up again and his bow hand jumped to the right as he winced. Another ugly note protruded from the instrument. This time the pain didn't stop. He slammed a hand to his chest to try and push the pain out but a sudden and urgent nerve had been targeted. Sherlock fell back into John's chair behind the desk and slid to the floor. He gasped in worry and his eyes were wide and confused. He needed to call a doctor, he needed to call _his_ doctor. The detective tried to stand up but his legs gave out and he crashed to the floor once again. His face was as pale as a sheet and he felt a cold sweat brake out across the back of his neck and forehead. What was happening to him? He cried out and turned on his back, clutching his abdomen in pain. The hospital medication must be wearing off, no longer dimming the effects of the hemlock that was absorbed in his body before hospital care. His blue eyes targeted a slender black phone sitting atop the counter in the kitchen. He crawled in that direction, falling as his weak arms stumbled and his upper body fell to the floor. Sherlock scrambled to the counter and pulled himself up with his fingers clutching the edge of the wood with his remnants of his strength. He fell as one hand let go to grab the mobile and when he placed it before his eyes, Mrs. Hudson's cell swam before his eyes. He felt light-headed and black dots danced across his vision. He typed the number he had memorized and placed the speaker before his ear,

"John," he choked in a hoarse whisper.

John jostled furiously in the back of the cab he was sharing with detective inspector Lestrade. How could Holmes just disappear like that! His anger and worry for his best friend was interrupted by a remark from Greg.

"Why is Mrs. Hudson calling me?"

John looked at him in confusion, "I didn't know you even had her number."

"She keeps me posted," Lestrade's face flushed, "what do you think she does in her free time?"

Watson narrowed her eyes. Hudson was a spy for the Yard? Well, he should've known long ago not to be fooled by the gentle old woman facade.

"Hmm," he fished his own mobile from his pocket, "Wow, she's called me to, about 11 times."

His screen displayed only one notification repeatedly:

 **Mrs. Hudson Missed Call**

 **Mrs. Hudson Missed Call**

 **Mrs. Hudson Missed Call**

 **Mrs. Hudson Missed Call**

 **Mrs. Hudson Missed Call**

He had to scroll down to see the other notifications.

"I hope she's all right," John's heart filled with worry as Greg pressed the call back button and placed it against his ear.

"Mrs. Hudson?" Greg spoke hesitantly into the speaker.

After listening for a moment, Lestrade's eyes widened and knocked against the glass separating the cabbie and the passengers, "Hey! Step on it, now!"

"There's bloody traffic cloggin up the streets!" the cabbie protested.

"It's an emergency!"

"It'll go to your fare," the cabbie turned his head and raised a craggy brow.

"I don't care!"

Both men lurched back as the cabbie pressed against the pedal and zoomed forward. John was already on the edge of his seat waiting for his friend to tell him the news about their dear old landlady.

"It's not Hudson," John's body flashed with immediate dread, as Greg's voice was grim, "It's Holmes, he can't breathe, I don't know what happened."

Greg put the phone by his ear again and started speak instructions through it. John barely heard.

"Sherlock, stay calm and lie down on your back, that's the best way to get airflow. We're almost there, okay? Just hang on, hang on!"

Hurry up!" John growled at the cabbie.

When the cab screeched to an abrupt stop by the curb, John sprint outside the vehicle and burst through the doors, his small form hiding undefinable strength. He took the stairs two at a time and bounded into the flat through the open doors. John's eyes widened in horror as his best friend Sherlock Holmes lay panting on the floor, his chest rising and failing faster than the eye could see and his violin beside him.

"Damn it, Holmes!" John skidded to a halt right next to his friend and kneeled down. Detective Inspector Lestrade stormed into the room right after.

"Sherlock, you're a bloody idiot," John's shaky hands tried to fish something out of his pocket as Greg went around and grabbed Sherlock's arm in anxiety.

"John, now isn't the time!" Why the hell aren't you helping? You're a doctor!"

"Hold on!" he yelled back at the detective inspector. From his pocket he held up a syringe to the light, "I took this from the hospital! I knew this was going to happen, but I didn't think it would be this soon, Sherlock!"

He glared down at Holmes who looked back at him with fearful blue eyes.

John stuck the needle of the syringe in the crook of Sherlock's elbow. After a minute or so, the pain died down slightly and Sherlock was able to take a semi-deep breath. Lestrade helped him up and practically carried him over to the couch.

"Sherlock, sleep," John said pointedly.

Holme's deep breaths resonated through the room as he embraced each precious lungful of air, "You don't happen to have any morphine in your pocket as well, John?"

Lestrade laughed, "Get some rest, Dr. Keller."

Even Watson tried to conceal a smile, "No, you bloody baby, just sleep. I'll call the hospital, see where I can get some more medication."

Sherlock nodded and closed his eyes willingly for the first time in weeks.

He was awake four hours later.

Watson and Lestrade were in the kitchen having a muted conversation over a cup of tea. The smell of cigarettes wafted through the room.

Sherlock sat up, stretched, and walked into the kitchen tiredly. Four hours wasn't nearly enough to cover a whole week, but he would sleep later tonight.

"And he lives," Greg smiled as Holmes walked in, his tangled brown hair and wrinkled shirt a sight to see. Sherlock shuffled through the mail on the counter to see a yellow envelope with the stamp from Mycroft's office. It was the new case he talked about.

"Very funny, Gerry," Sherlock laughed irritatedly, "John, tea, now."

"I already made some," he nodded his head to the steaming cup of Earl Grey with two cubes sitting on the countertop.

Sherlock looked down at the cup and thought about the events from the last few days.

"You know, John, I think I'm going to try English Breakfast, no cubes."


	10. Chapter 10

**Hey, just wanted to let everyone know that I will be writing a sequel to "Computer Criminal" and Sherlock will come back in a new adventure! If anyone would like to PM me some ideas, I'll take them into consideration, but will give a follow-up update when the first chapter drops! Thank you!**


	11. Chapter 11

New Sherlock story "Devil's Assassin" is up now! Go read it and check it out, it will be as equally good as Computer Criminal with Sherlock, John, and the gang! Lot's of hurt, witty, and clever Holmes to come! Enjoy!


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